Snippets
by cable69
Summary: A collection of individual stories, ALL OF WHICH ARE UNFINISHED and will be left that way.
1. Ga-Ga

**Summary: **They're in high school. Lady Gaga comes to town. My standard pairings: K/S, B/C, S/C, U/G, etc. A majority of this ends up as Jim being horribly annoying to Spock, and also teenagers in various stages of undress, panic, mania, anticipation, and excitement. Business as usual.

x

**Ga-Ga**

x

The gist of the night was that Jim woke up with a video on his phone that Spock would probably pay millions to have destroyed, a massive headache, and signature scrawled across his forehead.

It was 8 AM, and also a weekend, so when Jim screamed so loudly that dust drifted down from the ceiling, he woke Winona up. Jim's mother staggered into his room, clutching a robe around her and grousing.

"Oh my God, Jim," she moaned. "You know I had my friends over last night and I am sure you saw the empty Cuervo bottles when you came in, so why did you—"

She was interrupted by Jim screaming some more and jumping up and down on his bed and pointing at his forehead.

"SHE SIGNED MY HEAD!" Kirk shouted. "MOM SHE SIGNED MY HEAD! OH MY GOD! MOM! LOOK! OH MY GOD!"

Winona closed her eyes and prayed for patience. "Okay, dear, take it down a few hundred decibels and tell me slowly what is going on."

Jim enunciated carefully. It was the most important thing he was ever, ever going to say.

"_Mom. _Lady Gaga—signed—my head."

x

Five months ago, Pavel Chekov came screaming into first period waving his Sidekick and proceeded to shove its glowing screen into everybody's face.

"Lady Gaga!" he shouted. "_Lady Gaga!_ She is going to have a concert here! HERE!"

"Oh my God," said Jim, putting a hand on his chest and trying to breathe. "Oh my God."

"_What_? Really?" Nyota grabbed Pavel's phone and stared at it. "Oh my _God_."

They passed his phone around. Christine and Gaila started flailing their arms. Bones, of course, just looked irritable, and Hikaru rolled his eyes. Spock looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but he had that thing where he was expressionless and eye-rolling was probably an expression, so he didn't do anything. And Scotty didn't look up from his mechanical engineering textbook.

"You guys have _no_ priorities," Gaila hissed at the unexcited four. "It's. Lady. Gaga."

"And?" said Bones.

Christine leveled her finger at him. "No more disco stick for you. Ever."

"What? Come on! That's a totally unfair reaction!" Bones protested.

"It is _so_ not. If you don't respect Gaga, then I don't respect you," Christine snapped.

"Okay, I got nothin' against Gaga," said Bones. "Chris, you know how I feel—"

"About Rihanna? Yes, I got that message the last twenty times we listened to 'Disturbia' in the car. But loving one woman doesn't mean you can't at least appreciate another."

"My heart," said Bones, covering that organ with his palm, "can only belong to one."

Christine punched him in the gut and their conversation went a bit downhill. Jim, Nyota, Gaila, and Pavel, however, were still hyperventilating.

"How. Much," said Gaila, eyes crazed, "are the tickets? Tell me, Pavel, tell me."

Pavel typed a bit, then his eyes widened. "A lot," he said. "Wow. Here."

They passed the phone around a bit more.

"It's time to put Plan X into play," said Gaila seriously to Nyota.

"No," said Nyota shortly.

"But come on, it only involves—"

"No," said Nyota again.

"Nyota! How else are we going to—"

"Any way but Plan X, dear," said Nyota firmly.

"I gotta ask," said Jim.

"_No_," Nyota said again.

"White t-shirts," said Gaila, holding up her pointer finger to indicate that she was listing, "lip gloss, and a sprinkler."

"Ah'd pay for that," Scotty piped up.

"You'd also lose your balls," said Nyota sweetly. "Gaila, no."

"Stop bickering!" Pavel insisted. "This is not a laughing matter! We need a plan."

"Okay," said Jim. "Who here knows anything about the stock market?"

x

Eventually, they got Spock to write an algorithm.

"It was under protest," Spock muttered to Hikaru as he flicked on his phone to check APPL, WMT, and HPQ's noon values on Bloomberg.

"No more blowjobs?" said Hikaru sympathetically. Spock looked offended for a moment, then sighed, and nodded.

Pavel didn't write it because he was literally too excited about the concert to sit still. Because of this, Cupcake started calling him a puppy again, which forced Jim to have to beat Cupcake up again, which got Jim detention again, which got Winona angry again, and so Spock had to go over and plead for leniency because, since Spock had just written the algorithm, Jim had repealed his 'no blowjobs' rule, and Spock was kind of, you know, male and in high school, emotionless or not.

"It was for a good cause," Spock had explained patiently, trying to stop his leg from jittering and cursing love, the sedulous harpy. "Cupc—I mean, Jason, was making fun of Pavel, and you know how Pavel is with bullies." He made his very fake but apparently convincing sympathetic face and blessed all of the time he spent with his father at the state capitol, hobnobbing: it had given him quite an edge in dealing with grown-ups.

"Yes, I suppose I do," sighed Winona, sitting back on the couch in a huff. "Jim's just got to learn that you can't solve all your problems by hitting someone."

"I have been attempting to teach him, but," Spock shrugged.

"Oh, I know," said Winona, nodding wisely. She took a sip of tea. (Spock had made her some very good Vulcan spice tea; Jim had actually texted him "brownnoser :P" and Spock had very angrily texted back "Well excuse me for attempting to obtain your quick release by greasing the wheels of authority with freshly-picked, perfectly brewed _la-ha'ganis holoun_.", to which Jim replied, "ur so lucky ily".) "No power in the world could control my boy."

Spock kind of wanted to say, "There are some powers, by which I mean penises," but he blamed that impulse on spending way too much time with Jim and moved on hastily. "I shall continue to do my best, Ms. Lawrence."

"Your best is admirable and I approve," said Winona. "And fine, you two can go out tonight. But Jim, I expect you home by _nine_."

"That's inhuman!" Jim squawked. "_Luby's_ is still open at nine!"

"Just, get out of my house," Winona sighed. "Spock, thanks for the tea, and best of luck with Jim."

"You are welcome, and thank you. I quite need it," said Spock. "I will have him home by nine."

"Don't _encourage_ her!"

"Jim, please cease communicating."

"Yeah, shut up, Jimmy."

x

The algorithm was, obviously, not good enough to make them any significant amount of money, but it did cover the cost of eight tickets. Scotty flat-out refused to go, and since he wasn't being dragged by a significant other, they couldn't use anything against him. So it was the four couples: Jim and Spock, Bones and Christine, Nyota and Gaila, and Pavel and Hikaru.

The concert was at the end of April, which meant that everybody really should have been studying for finals rather than going to concerts that lasted until one AM and staying up past four AM anticipating the concerts. Spock, Bones, and Hikaru made a solemn pact to support each other in this, their time of most desperate need, which turned out to have been a good idea when the enthusiastic five got the idea to go shopping for concert clothes on the weekend before The Big Event.

It was a Saturday morning and everybody was at the Ten Forward for breakfast. Gaila, who was flipping through an photographed, color-coordinated, indexed, and cross-referenced archive of her clothes on her phone, had said, "You know, I could use some new boots," and Pavel had said, "And I vould like a shirt," and Nyota had gotten a Look in her eyes that meant credit cards melting from overuse. "But I have to wash my hair today," said Bones, ashen-faced. Hikaru, resigned, ran home for his hiking boots, and Spock looked like he might be praying.

"I thought you weren't religious," said Jim to Spock.

"There are times," said Spock quietly, "when many previously unfeasible actions are judicious."

They finished breakfast hastily (Christine had to take Bones's eggs Benedict away from him because he was eating them so slowly) and piled into Spock's minivan for the ride to the mall, during which Jim continued his tradition of ribbing him horribly about said minivan.

"Considering I am not only driving you to your desired location, but also agreeing to attend a musical recital that I do not wish to attend with you, going shopping with you, and providing you with sexual intercourse, I do not believe that you should be antagonizing me," said Spock, making a sharper than usual right turn onto Oak.

"The things we do for love," grinned Jim, and turned on "Alejandro."

"If you killed him, no jury in the world," Bones muttered into Spock's ear after they'd parked at Treeline Mall.

"Thank you," said Spock, taking Bones's arm warmly, "but I have indeed taken leave of my senses and am not presently capable of carrying out the deed."

"I understand your situation," sighed Bones, jerking his head at Christine, who was arm in arm with Nyota, singing "Bad Romance."

"It is difficult," Spock sympathized.

Hikaru's hiking boots turned out to be necessary. The group spent eight hours at the mall. Even Spock, who was allergic to shopping, bought a pair of black slacks at the Gap to wear to college interviews ("You're not doing that for another _year_!" "It is important to be prepared." Mutter: "Boy Scout."). Bones kept disappearing only to be found cuddled in those vibrating massage chairs distributed like weeds around American malls, arms wrapped around his knees, whispering things about "stress fractures" and "Stockholm syndrome." By the time they piled back into Spock's minivan, Hikaru had developed a tick.


	2. Pak

_**Pak **_(n. The act or an instance of losing; the condition of being deprived or bereaved of something or someone. Standard translation: loss. Uhura/Spock.)

x

Nyota had visited Vulcan enough times to know that the color was wrong.

She could taste the fragility in the air. Under her heels, the dirt crumbled away, ceasing its shape with the smallest tip of wind. The mountains, far off, looked shattered. The scrub bushes flickered, brown.

She ran the earth through her fingers, bending down and exposing her neck to the too-small sun. Particles of sand jittered in her palm, then flicked away.

Vulcan was a dull red; rust, _zhar_. Parts of its mountains and valleys were darker, _ug'yon-kur _or _yon-zhar-kur_. But this planet was a paler place. The sand was simply _kin-kur_, _ram_. There were yellows and soft oranges. Vulcan was a raw place; exposed, unlike its people. But this was swathed in bandages. Thin ones, ones that blood leaked through.

The diplomatic contingent was murmuring in Ta'el Vulcan, a high language Nyota had no functional knowledge of since it was not taught to non-Vulcans. Spock, once, had mentioned that he did not speak it very well since he was half-Vulcan and only one parent had been able to instruct him in it. He was holding his own with the contingent, though, as far as Nyota could tell. They were behind the glass, within the beam shelter, their faces distorted appropriately.

Spock turned away after a while, and Nyota dusted off her hands as she heard the very faint noise of the pneumatic door. Spock stepped out of the shelter, eyes staring off at the mountains. He looked like a mannequin for a moment. His formal uniform was too shiny, and there was a plastic sheen of sweat on his ears.

That was another thing. The clouds of Vulcan weren't like this. The clouds of Vulcan were high and streaked, and these were middle-low, lumpy, giant's thick fingers reaching to the ground. Not the impressive archways, the strong traces that hated to fade, although fade they always did.

She said, "Did you want me to leave? I thought I should."

"Oh," he said, looking at her. "Yes. Thank you. I am sorry that you felt you needed to leave. But I did appreciate it." He glanced back at the shelter, black eyes a brief flicker. "I am also sorry that Vulcans are… uncomfortable, right now."

"Yes," said Nyota, the unspoken "I understand" clear in her voice. She didn't actually understand, of course (Earth being gone, that was unthinkable, unknowable), but she thought she could.

"They are sending for the car. They did not expect us until later."

"Yes, I noticed the captain was in a hurry." Nyota smiled a little. "He probably has a hot date."

Spock frowned. "Nyota, I highly doubt that the captain would hurry a diplomatic visit because of a romantic liason."

Nyota actually laughed. "And I thought you knew him."

The Vulcans were prompt. The diplomatic contingent appeared quickly with their vehicle. Nyota looked away from them as she ducked into the car. Spock said something softly in a dialect she did not recognize, and the contingent did not reply. He saluted him, they saluted him, and Nyota pressed the accelerator lightly.

Then, they were flying across New Vulcan, on their way.

x

_stau_, v. To put to death; to deprive of life; to put an end to; extinguish; to destroy a vitally essential quality of. Standard translation: kill.

x

The noise began near Nal'kaya.

Nyota's hands were just unclenching on the controls when Spock's ears twitched slightly. Since he had been utterly still for the past two hours, in basic _wh'ltri_, or meditation, she noticed, and glanced over. He saw her move.

"Be calm," he said. "It is nothing you should be concerned about."

They veered into a bleached valley. Homes were half-built on the slopes, and the hum was loud enough to seem like a wasp sitting on your shoulder, just beneath your year. Nyota's hands locked up again. There was a small group of children standing in a circle. They were young teenagers, maybe thirteen and fourteen. They were not meditating: their eyes were open.

Nyota saw that Spock was watching them. "What are they doing?" she asked.

Spock pursed his lips slightly. The children slipped from view around a curve in the path. "They must _vafer-tor_, _tabaku_ _rik i'ki_."

"'Recover their souls'?" she translated.

"We all must," he said.

x

_naya_, n. A low, sustained, mournful cry, usually indicative of great sorrow or pain. A lamentation. Standard translation: mourn.


	3. The Worst Hair Day Ever

**Summary: **This story is a bit of a take off on typical _TOS_ episodes, a chance to experiment with pairings (um, yeah, the pairings are Uhura/McCoy, Kirk/Sulu, Spock/Scotty/Chekov, and Chapel/Rand—I really like completely bizarre pairings), and an excuse to write Uhura, who I just _love_.

x

**The Worst Hair Day Ever**

x

It had been a very long day.

Nyota hit the pillow like a sucker punch and was asleep in half a second. She drooled a miniature lake into her pillow, and when she was awoken after what felt like two minutes of light dozing (but was in reality about nine solid hours of twitching REM sleep) she had to wipe hastily at her face before answering the vid-com on the wall.

"Surface mission," said John Kyle apologetically. "Captain wants you to the transporter room in five."

"_Five minutes?_" said Nyota. "I just woke up!"

"Sucks for you," said John with an evil grin. "Also, what happened to your hair?"

Nyota scowled at him and cut the feed. She scrambled over to her mirror and nearly scrambled away again. Oh, _God_. Evidently she had tossed and turned heavily in her sleep (which she legitimately felt like she hadn't profited from at all), begetting the nest of an insane, probably rabid badger in her hair.

She attempted to brush the monstrosity out but broke four teeth in the first minute and quickly abandoned that tactic in order to salvage the remains of her now-bedraggled comb. She wasted another minute staring at the aggressive tangle in horror. Finally she gathered the rest of her hair on top of her head and rummaged in her closet for the regulation hat all Starfleet officers were issued. It was a rounded, short-billed sort of coquette that didn't look too terrible, although it was off-putting, since Nyota hadn't worn a hat since her graduation mortarboard; she was simply not a hat person.

Nevertheless, it solved her problem. She tugged on her surface uniform, grabbed her tricorder, communicator, and earpiece, and ran flat-out for the transporter room.

She was a minute late, but that was okay, because Kirk was two minutes late, and he was evidently bringing everybody else from the bridge, so Nyota got a chance to collapse against the control panel and chat breathlessly with Joe Tormolen, who gave the hat a questioning look but thankfully didn't ask. Kirk strode in eventually, followed by McCoy, Chekov, Tony Giotto, and Christine Chapel, who mouthed "What's with the hat?" to Nyota, who replied in a whisper, "My hair looks like a wild dog tried to make a house out of it using a hurricane." Christine looked appropriately horrified and whispered back, "I am so sorry about this sad occurrence that I will give you either my chocolate ration for the week or my firstborn, your choice." Nyota replied, "Your chocolate ration would be tastier, unless we can get some A-1 sauce on this planet." At this point, Christine pinched her breast for suggesting infant cannibalism, and Kirk leered at them, so they ceased and desisted.

"Ready to beam?" said Kirk, strapping on his utility belt and leaping onto the transporter pad.

"Of course not, sir," said Nyota as politely as she could, taking a few cautionary steps away from Christine. "Where exactly are we going and why?"

"Oh. I forgot you weren't on the bridge, Lieutenant." Kirk smiled brilliantly. "We're beaming down to Knossor, a rather Hellenistic planet currently having some weather issues, in that their biggest city is about to flood pretty badly. We're offering them our help. You are needed to translate."

"What _language_ do they speak?"

"Hell if I know. Positions, everybody!"

Nyota rolled her eyes and stepped to the back of the transporter pad, next to Tony Giotto, who was checking his heavy phaser. He was taller than the rest of them and about forty years old, with elegant silver-black hair and stone black eyes. He was one of the most capable men Uhura had ever met and she was delighted to have him on the mission. His fingers moved over the phaser like it was an extra limb he was testing the flexibility of. Tony shot a polite smile at her, holstered the phaser, and stood at attention.

Christine took her position behind Leonard. She looked angelic in her pale blue nurse's uniform. She had a long, set jaw, and the lines of her lips were firm, but curved. Still, she poked nervously at her medical tricorder and pushed the same wisp of hair off of her ear three times before settling into her stance. Christine could be tough as nails at times, and flighty as a bird at others.

Pavel bounced on the balls of his feet up to his position in front of Nyota. If Tony was a rock and Christine was a bird, Pavel was a puppy. His brown eyes were almost comically large and his lip quivered with excitement. Nyota was displeased to note that he had been issued a phaser. It wasn't that Pavel was untrustworthy, just a bit _young_.

Kirk, on the other hand, was mature enough, if more of an Apollo than a Zeus or Poseidon. Nyota knew he was an almost brilliant commander, but he was still the most annoying person she had ever met in her entire life. He was also preternaturally beautiful, with those ice-blue eyes and clever, smiling lips. She hated him more than slightly.

Leonard, though. _There_ was a man. He always hunched, so that when he straightened, everybody paid attention to his unexpected height. He tended to be harried and wide-eyed, and always protested urgently against Kirk's outrageous schemes. Many of the crew avoided him, associating him only with his alarmingly thorough seasonal physicals and hypospray campaigns, and called him crazy and cracked behind his back. But he was an incredible doctor. Nyota had seen him in medbay, absolutely calm and in control during a bloody triage. His eyes were even bluer than Kirk's; they looked like a deep ocean rather than a shallow sheet of ice.

Kirk glanced around to make sure they were all in place. He turned his wide smile to Joe and said, "Energize."

The golden haze gathered, gleamed, and pulled them apart. Nyota relaxed into the warm buzz of atoms and tensed as she reformed, the mist of gold clearing to reveal a lush, rock-strewn landscape, and also three women.

"Oh dear," Nyota heard Christine sigh, and agreed. Everybody was unsurprised, except for Pavel, who was confused, as Kirk strutted forward, preening. The three women were identical, with sea-blue hair like cords and pale, teal skin and, most importantly, very sheer white robes that clung energetically to their perfectly proportioned forms. The women stood side-by-side, arms clasped in front of their bellies, their attitudes of arch carelessness evident in the tension and pose of their bodies. They had high, sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes, and they were so thin that they were almost skeletal. Still, there was something captivating about them.

"Hello-_o_," said Kirk to the women, who, as one, arched their eyebrows. Leonard snorted into his sleeve. Tony elbowed him. "I'm Captain James Kirk of the _USS Enterprise_. I heard you have a storm coming."

"_We greet you, Captain Kirk,_" said the three women as one, eyebrows descending, and Nyota realized that they were speaking ancient Greek. Kirk's brow knotted in consternation. She moved forward hastily.

"_I am Lieutenant Nyota Uhura of the _USS Enterprise," said Nyota, the language thick on her tongue. "_Do you understand Standard?_"

The women, who were, Nyota thought, creepy rather than sexy, turned their unblinking gaze to her. "_We understand what is spoken to us_," they said. Their voices were like lyres, sharp and flat, depending; not a one of them was in tune with the other, although they spoke at the same pitch and with the same speed. They had very sharp white teeth and their eyes were completely black.

"_I will translate your words for the Captain_," said Nyota. "_Let me inform him that you understand what he says_."

She told Kirk, who asked the women what they were called.

"_We are the Aspasia_," said the women, drawing themselves up craning their long necks. "_We interpret the will of the people. We have seen that you will help us. Please tell your Captain that we take you into the City to see our leader_."

Nyota had to giggle about them saying anything along the lines of "taking them to their leader" because it was just so classic. The Aspasia, moving separately and yet in the same manner, led them down a rocky, occasionally staired path into an open valley. At the bottom of the valley was a large town, built almost entirely of white marble and paved with sky-blue stone that gleamed in the clouded sunlight. Nyota could hear the rushing of a huge river close beyond the tops of the hills that lined the valley, and could see, faintly, a mass of dark stormhead above the valley's northernmost peak.

Kirk radioed the _Enterprise _on the way down, checking in with Spock, who assured Kirk that he would maintain orbit. They established that Kirk would make contact once more either after speaking with the leader or once an hour had passed.

Kirk, Pavel, and Christine were walking as close to the Aspasia as they could without actually drooling on them, and Tony was responsibly bringing up the rear. Leonard had been in front of Nyota, but halfway down the path, he fell back to walk next to her. "Nice hat," he said, without preamble, but with a grin.

Nyota glared at him.

He laughed. "It's just a little incongruous," he said. "You're not a _hat person_."

"I know, Leonard," snapped Nyota, sidestepping a pothole. The path was clean but rough. "You're not a phaser person, but you've got one."

"They give 'em out at testosterone meetin's," said Leonard casually, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. His Science blue shirt stretched thin over his chest as he stepped down.

"You seem weirdly not on edge," said Nyota. "Do you think this is actually going to be a boring mission?"

"Have we _ever_ had a borin' mission?"

Nyota reflected on this. "I don't think so. Somebody's managed to fuck something up on every planet so far. Remember that time Kirk pissed off the Slug Lord of Badzar IX?"

"That was _terrible_," said Leonard with a shudder. "I've never been able to look at mucus the same since. No, I'm just resigned to somethin' terrible happenin'." He held her gaze for a moment longer than she expected and she nearly tripped over a chunk of marble.

They reached the town within a few minutes. The place held probably five thousand people, all of whom were teal-skinned like the Aspasia. They were an extremely vocal species. The women ran around shouting at each other in Greek and the men spoke a type of sign language that required the constant movement of their hands and faces. Everybody wore form-hugging white cotton sheets tied with a very strange looking sort of reed that was bright yellow and purple and seemed quite mismatched with the rest of the formal setting. All of the people were strikingly beautiful. None of the women were as skeletally thin as the Aspasia, but they had the same sharp good looks and thick, almost sculpted hair. The men were larger than the women, and significantly thicker, with eyes that were completely cobalt blue rather than black. A majority of both sexes carried swords.

The Aspasia led the six officers straight up the middle of the market. The Knossorians surrounded the way, coming out to watch the crew and chatter. They seemed friendly enough, which Nyota was quite thankful for, since they looked so intimidating.

"Interesting," said Tony speculatively from behind Nyota. She glanced back at him. He was staring into the crowd, hand resting on his belt near his phaser. "They're staring at you, Lieutenant Uhura."

Nyota's eyes swept around the crowd. Oh, God. They _were_ staring at her, and talking even faster as they did.

Kirk fell back, and Nyota had to give him credit for being more alert than she was. "Any idea what this is about, Lieutenant?" he asked casually. She saw him give Tony a very small nod and wondered what it meant.

"No, sir," she said crisply. "Perhaps they're noticing that my skin color is different from all of yours."

"It's a possibility," said Kirk, eyes constantly moving. "This would be a good opportunity for a lesson in racial sensitivity, huh? Too bad we have a mission. Let me know if they single you out in any other way, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

Kirk returned to ogling the Aspasia, although something deep within Nyota whispered out that he just might be smarter than he looked. She ignored this as heresy. Leonard, who had retreated to a polite distance while Kirk was speaking with her, returned to his place by her side.

"What'd he say?" he demanded roughly.

"The Knossorians are staring at me," said Nyota quietly.

Leonard's eyebrows disappeared into his hair as he scanned the crowd obviously and intently. The Knossorians tittered and Nyota blushed. "I don't like it," Leonard declared, his scowl deepening. "Tony, if they so much as take a step towards her, don't be afraid to shoot."

"I have my orders," said Tony mildly.

The Aspasia led them into a colonnaded building in the center of the town that looked similar to the others, except for one dramatic difference: it was a stark, unreflective black, where the other structures had been a sparkling white. The crew climbed a set of stairs and passed through a short peristyle before walking into a vast central chamber that was open to the air. Rails lined the three sides of a great pit that took up most of this chamber. Another wide staircase descended before them, and at its base, within the pit, was a huge silver bench, ornately carved and embellished, and covered in grotesque statues of inhuman figures, all twisted in poses of pain or malice or ugly lust. In the midst of these statues was a simple, beautiful throne hewn from the same black marble as the building was constructed from, and on that throne was a very naked man.

"_This is Thanos_," said the chorus that was the Aspasia. "_He is our King._"

Thanos observed them through heavily lidded eyes. He looked the same as all of the other Knossorians the crew had seen, except that he wore a thick silver crown on his wide head. He stood to greet them, unfolding like a book, and signed something that Nyota interpreted as, "_A welcome to our city for you, honored guests_." Then he did something strange: he stared at Nyota for a full minute without speaking.

Nyota could practically hear Tony's stance shifting. Kirk's shoulders went stiff, but that was the only sign he gave of concern. Leonard, though, started muttering to himself.

Thanos signed something that Nyota didn't understand much of. She thought she saw the words "mastery" and "savior." The Aspasia paused before translating.

"_Thanos greets the bearer of the shfayr_," or at least that was the final word sounded like.

"_Would you repeat that last part?_" Nyota asked.

"_Thanos_," said the Aspasia again, "_greets the bearer of the shfayr_."

"_Honored Aspasia_," said Nyota patiently. "_What is the—shayfayer?_"

The Aspasia stared at her. Thanos stared at her. The crew of the Enterprise stared at her.

"_The shfayr_," said the Aspasia, as if they were explaining bread. "_The Dominion Relic. The Badge of Great Power. The Rock of Rhodin. The Lightning of All Souls._"

Looks were exchanged as Nyota translated for this.

"_Honored Aspasia,_" said Nyota, her teeth grinding a bit. "_Where I come from, we have no such memories of this object of which you speak. None of us bear this object._"

"_But you do_," said the Aspasia. "_You wear it on your head_."

"_What?_" said Nyota blankly.

"_Your hat_," said the Aspasia, completely and seriously deadpan. "_It contains the power of God_."

There was a bit of a silence as Nyota's brain tripped, fell, and wondered if it ought to bother getting back up again.

_This is_, she thought, _the worst hair day ever._

Nyota made some motions at the Aspasia and Thanos that pled for patience, and finished translating the whole thing to Kirk, who, after she finished speaking, blinked a few times.

"What?"

"That's exactly what I said."

"Can you—get them to—like—_clarify_, or something?" said Kirk, looking desperate. Nobody else had spoken: they were all staring at Nyota's hat. She glared at them.

"Okay, guys. Quit. _Guys_. _It's just a hat_."

"What if it _does_ contain ze power of God?" whispered Pavel, eyes wide.

"Shut _up_," hissed Nyota.

"Um, ask them if this really matters," said Kirk, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "We need to get started with the dam and the evacuation pretty soon. The city'll be underwater in twelve hours if we don't bring the heavy equipment down. Do they care more about your hat than about their, you know, _lives_?"

"I'll ask," said Nyota, and did so. Thanos and the Aspasia replied. Nyota turned back to Kirk.

"Turns out," said Nyota, feeling a blinding headache coming on, "that they care more about my hat."

Things went downhill from there.

The Aspasia explained excitedly that the Knossorians had been waiting for the _shfayrohn,_ or One Who Wore A Hat, to come to their city for thousands of years. Nyota did a lot of covering her face at this point. Thanos kept asking if he could wear the hat. He had changed from being a solemn, fierce-looking leader to an eager boychild. Nyota fended him off as Kirk tried to talk to the Aspasia, who had started grinning alarmingly. Their teeth were glinting.

"Listen," Nyota finally said. "We'll let you _have_ the hat after we've evacuated the city. But right now, we really need to get everybody out, in case the dam doesn't work."

Thanos nearly had a heart attack at the prospect of being given the hat. He danced outside and, with the help of the Aspasia, gathered the Knossorians before the peristyle of the central building that they had been in. Nyota was ushered forward (a very sour expression on her face) and proclaimed to be the long-awaited _shfayrohn_. The crowd positively exploded with excitement.

"Yeah, yeah," said Nyota, not looking forward to taking the hat off and having everybody see her hair.

"Good day for you," Leonard murmured in her ear. She glared at him. "Well, it's not all the time you get proclaimed a savior on an alien world. Just imagine what our ancestors were lackin' in their day-to-day experiences."

"Nothing at all," growled Nyota. "I'm regretting choosing Starfleet as the sound option for repaying my student loans."

Leonard frowned at her. "What kind of Dark Ages were you livin' in? They made education free a hundred years ago."

"It's a _metaphor_," hissed Nyota.

Through Nyota and the Aspasia, Kirk coordinated the evacuation. The Knossorians had a stronghold at a hill nearby (which was evidently called the Rhokosia—Nyota had no idea where they came up with these names) that he ordered them to retreat to. In it was housed their only warp ship, a tiny, bullet-shaped craft that they had constructed, despite not even having invented the steam engine, about a hundred years before. The ship was the reason that the Knossorians knew of the Federation, enough to ask for assistance when their advanced weather technology showed the approaching deluge. Leonard, who had some sociological background, gave a whispered history to Nyota about the Knossorians, who had no methods of transportation besides their legs and the ship, and were able to build incredibly complex chaos-based computing systems (some of the only in the galaxy capable of predicting weather, stock market trends, and certain social events) without even being able to construct buildings over five stories in height (much less the required dam). They were a puzzling society, to say the least.

Nyota, Leonard, and Tony went with the Knossorians. Originally it was going to have been just Nyota and Leonard, but after the hat incident (as Kirk had started calling it), it was figured that Nyota might need protection. Kirk and Pavel stayed behind to supervise construction. With Tony leading the way, the three of them climbed the Rhokosia, Thanos in the lead.


	4. Dust

**Summary: **You know, I was gonna write another big fic. It was gonna be awesome. But then I didn't. This is most of the first of what would have been eight chapters, but I haven't worked on this since 2009, so yeah.

x

**Dust**

•

a fic about uncanny similarities,

uncomfortable differences,

and the texture of the human mind.

•

Whenever you take a step you are bound to disturb something. You disturb the air as you go forward, you disturb the dust, the ground.

• Mahatma Gandhi

**Chapter One • Switch**

• • •

Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the starship _Enterprise_ is a Starfleet officer, not a pillow, thank you very much. But the weight of a head on his chest does not bother him unduly as he swims through the last shallow layers of sleep. When he blinks his eyes open, surfacing in the weak morning light, it takes him a moment to register surprise at the black-haired form lying across his bare pectorals.

"Uh," says Kirk hesitantly. He definitely recognizes that hair. As he realizes who it is, the surprise starts in waves. He is the _captain_, and what is going on? He snaps, "Mr. Spock," and the hair shifts slowly, coming awake. The body's long fingers open and close automatically on the blue bed sheets, and then suddenly Spock is sitting up, an uncharacteristically wild look in his eyes.

"Captain!" says Spock, moving quickly away from the bed. He, too, is shirtless, and the green flush across his thin chest accentuates his embarrassment.

Kirk is about to say something to the effect of, "What the hell were you doing in my bed?" when he realizes that it's not his bed, because his bed doesn't have blue sheets, and—and there isn't any sunlight in space.

Spock seems to have hijacked Kirk's train of thought. "Where are we?" Spock says, staring at the sunbeams filtering through the window, and Kirk is shaken by how small Spock's voice is.

"I have no idea," says Kirk wonderingly, looking around.

They are in a small bedroom, eight feet by nine feet, on a queen-sized bed without a headboard. The walls are painted an off-white and the two doors are made of cheap, yellowish wood. The single window through which the puzzling sun shines is plain and rectangular, covered by crooked Venetian shutters. The light that glows between the slats is dusty. The room has a distant quality to it, as if it were only casually lived in. They are in a house, not a home.

Kirk looks down at himself. He is wearing loose, faded pajama pants and no underwear, he can tell. Spock is wearing pajamas of the same style, only his are blue where Kirk's are yellow. They stare at each other for a long moment.

"We've been in stranger situations, Mr. Spock," Kirk says gently. Even after four years, he cannot be sure of his first officer's reaction. But Spock does what Kirk expects him to do—simply raises his eyebrow and crosses his arms over his bare chest.

"Logically, the first thing to be done is to discover where we are," says Spock, glancing around the room again. It is bare, filled only at the corners by an empty laundry hamper, a nightstand with a lamp, and a plain, square dresser. There is a picture on the right wall, near one of the doors, that seems out of place; it is a poster of a cloudy forest, tacked up with mismatched pushpins.

Spock crosses to the door on the front wall and opens it to find a closet, half-empty of clothing. There are extra wire hangers hanging bleakly on the bar across the top of the alcove.

Spock tries the other door. It opens into a hallway.

Kirk automatically tries to draw his phaser, but simply ends up pawing at his right hip. Spock, who is looking back at him, seems to understand his captain's feelings. Spock's hand is clenched at his side.

"We should find weapons before we venture into the rest of the house," Kirk says, looking for something heavy to wield but seeing nothing.

"I do not think that is necessary," Spock says, obviously confident about this, since his eyes are still, not flicking constantly, searching for trouble. "We seem to be in no danger, here."

"But—why are we here? And where are we?"

"I do not know, Captain."

Kirk sighs. "At least let me go first," he says, walking over to Spock. He ignores his discomfort—he hasn't been this close to Spock's flesh since the incident on Ekos—and moves ahead of his first officer. He feels better now that he's between Spock and danger. His natural place is in front of his crew, as their protector.

He rounds the doorframe, keeping against the wall. The hallway is short. The corridor to their left terminates in an open door through which a dingy bathroom is visible. To their right is another closed door, and in front of it, an entryway into a wider room. Kirk signals Spock to stay at his back and creeps forward, palms flat against the wall behind him. In Kirk's wake, Spock moves like a cat, utterly noiseless. Kirk, too, makes no sound as his naked feet ghost over the rough carpet.

Through the doorway is a dim kitchen, with a view, between low-hanging cabinets, into an unkempt living room. Kirk gives it a once-over—nothing. No inhabitants. He carefully opens the door to his right to reveal a lived-in, comfortable office, half the size of the bedroom and three times as full. Kirk slips inside, Spock following him.

A wide desk dominates one half of the space, a small russet settee the other. In between, facing the door, stands a tall, elegant floor lamp, wrought in gold and clearly well-made. Kirk stares at it for a moment—it is the first work of quality craftsmanship he has seen in this dreary house. The room is warmer for the lamp, which is on, casting a quiet light from under its favrile shade.

It is also his first clue that something is very, very wrong.

"Lightbulb," he whispers to Spock, pointing at the lamp. Spock nods in agreement, and nudges Kirk towards the desk. An old Apple computer is sitting there, about as large across as both of their heads, but as thick as both of their hands.

"I would estimate the era to be early 2000s, Captain," said Spock, crossing to the desk and touching the monstrous computer lightly. "Earth, of course. Apple Computers has not yet made its leap to ultra-slim."

Kirk has stopped listening—and breathing—because he has seen the collection of pictures on the desk.

"Spock," he says, clutching Spock's shoulder. Spock turns from the computer and judging by the sudden stiffness in his triceps, Kirk knows that Spock is seeing this too, that this is not a hallucination.

There are four differently framed pictures lining the top portion of the desk. One is a formal portrait of Sam and Aurelan, Kirk's brother and sister-in-law, and their three sons. A second is of Winona and George, Kirk's parents, sitting casually side-by-side on a loveseat in a homey living room. The third is a two-frame panel, displaying both of Kirk's sets of grandparents. The last picture shocks him more than the other three, if possible. It is clearly a casual shot, a view down a red-checkered picnic table from a lower perspective at a high F-stop. In it, Hikaru Sulu is standing at the end of the table in a bright pink apron, scowling and brandishing a pair of metal tongs that clutch a burnt hot dog. Pavel Chekov, closest to him, has raised his eyebrows into his long bangs and is attempting to appear innocent of some misdeed. Nyota Uhura and Montgomery Scott are seated on the other side of the table from Chekov, holding each other mid-laugh. Leonard McCoy is knocking back a bottle of Coors Light, eyes closed, and Spock is staring at the cellular telephone he is holding in his hand, ignoring everybody else.

Kirk thinks he knows who it was that took that last picture, even though he has never been on Earth with these six members of his bridge crew before. He swallows loudly in the silence.

"Captain," says Spock, his voice strained. "It is imperative that we find out what is occurring."

"I agree, Spock," says Kirk hollowly. "You look around outside. I'll see if I can figure out who… who owns this house." As if I don't already know, he thinks.

Spock nods shortly and leaves the room as if he were never there. Kirk surveys the rest of the desk. It is untidy, but in an unorganized way, not a messy one. There is a pile of mail hanging off of the right corner, near the computer with its ancient keyboard and mouse. Kirk picks up the top letter. The return address is listed as _Harlen County Water Supply, 54 Finfeather Rd, Chestnut, TX 73409_. And the recipient is listed as _James Kirk, 1701 Enterprise Dr, Chestnut, TX 73409_.

Kirk drops the letter.

He'd suspected as soon as he'd seen the pictures, but—but for it to be _real_… God, what does this _mean_? he asks himself. Surely it's all an illusion: some bored, powerful alien species has created an early 2000s-era home and installed him and Spock in it, and all they have to do is talk to the aliens, or break out of the dream, or—or do whatever it is he always manages to do to get himself, his crew, and his _Enterprise_ out of trouble.

But the mail—it seems like an almost cruelly accurate touch, as do the pictures. These aliens are really trying, he thinks; they want to make it seem like I actually live here.

He opens a few drawers. Evidently the aliens see him as very messy (he's starting to realize that the aliens don't know him that well; if he had a house, it wouldn't be this dingy), because the drawers are full of random things, stamps and staplers and packets of cigarettes (why? He doesn't smoke) and old sticks of gum. He extracts a small, well-worn black book that has the word "Addresses" stamped into the front of it. He flips through it, smiling slightly. Evidently the aliens got something right about his personality. There are quite a few names in the book, most with strange little marks next to them that have an obviously sexual connotation. Then he frowns, noticing that some of those names are male. God, how did the aliens know _that?_ Spock and McCoy, his best friends, don't know that he is occasionally attracted to men. He has a hard time admitting the fact to himself, and the aliens just throw it in so casually, as if his sexual preferences are an open book for anyone to read…

He feels sick. He is about to close the book when, in the B section, a name stands out. All it says is "BONES 622-1239."

Kirk stares at it. _Obviously_. If McCoy is in that picture, he must have a doppelgänger in this world. Kirk looks around for a telephone and finds it hidden under a stack of magazines. He takes a moment to figure out how to work the contraption before carefully dialing all seven numbers. He waits as it rings, speaker to his ear—how archaic. Finally, there is a beep, and a gruff, wary voice says, "Hello?"

"Dr. McCoy?" says Kirk cautiously.

"_Captain_? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," says Kirk, relieved that it's _his_ McCoy and not some era-appropriate duplicate. "Where are you?"

"Some house," McCoy growls, and Kirk hears the sound of a door slamming in the background. "It's about to rain. Where are we? Or _when_ are we? This seems like the late twentieth century."

"Spock says early twenty-first," Kirk says. "Listen, the house you're in—is it a little… strange?"

"What d'you mean?"

Kirk doesn't know how to phrase this. He scratches his head, holding the phone closer. "Well, Spock and I woke up in a house that's pretty obviously mine. I mean, there are pictures of my parents and grandparents and brother's family." He does not mention the fourth photograph; he is not sure what to make of it yet.

"The house I'm in… it _feels_ like my house, but there's somethin' off about it. What do you think's goin' on, Jim?"

"I haven't talked it over with Spock yet, but I'm pretty sure this is all an illusion," says Kirk. "A powerful illusion, possibly created by aliens with powers unknown to us. There's no other explanation."

"And that sure isn't much of one. But if it's the best you've got… How about I try to figure out where our houses are in relation to each other and meet you over there? I found a local map and an address book. Evidently we're in Chestnut, Texas."

"That's what I've discovered. Good plan, Bones. Do you have this telephone number?"

"Yeah, it showed up on my screen when you called me. Good luck."

"You too."

Kirk lowers the phone and finds the End button. Spock chooses that moment to reenter the room.

"I have scouted the area around the house and found nothing but woods, fields, and nearby dwellings," says Spock, attempting to sound as normal as possible even though he is still shirtless. "There is a motor vehicle located outside that we could use to explore the area further."

Kirk laughs at the resigned expression on Spock's face. "Memories from Sigma Iota II back in full force, Mr. Spock?"

"Unfortunately, yes," says Spock, and Kirk can almost see him trying not to roll his eyes.

"I made contact with Dr. McCoy," says Kirk. "He said he would meet us here, at my house. You can try driving around, if you'd like—"

"Captain, I am an even worse driver than you," says Spock, clearly leaving off the _if that is possible_. "It will take Dr. McCoy at least thirty minutes to locate and arrive at this house, should he actually be able to do so—which I doubt. But, as I live in hope, I plan on returning here before that time has passed."

Kirk grins, reassured by Spock's attitude. "That's more like it, Mr. Spock. Alright. Let's see where we are, then, after we find some proper clothes."

As they search the closet for fitting attire, Kirk tells Spock about the letter and the address book (just that he had found McCoy's telephone number in it, not—not anything else). At one point, their hands close on the same shirt, and Spock moves his hand away quickly, as if Kirk's claim on the thing makes it electric. The sudden movement surprises Kirk, and he can't help but glance at Spock, who is not looking at him. Then Kirk realizes what he is doing and turns back to the clothes, dragging his gaze away. They dress, facing away from each other, trying to be quiet, as if that will make everything less awkward, even though it is making things more awkward.

Kirk is confused. He has been half-naked in front of Spock before. In fact, the way his uniform shirts tear, it is a wonder he is fully clothed so often. On Ekos, Spock actually climbed on top of him while they were in a similar state of undress to reach a light fixture, and they joked about it then (or, Kirk joked at Spock, and Spock responded with neutral amusement). Why is he acting so strangely now? Kirk wonders, and suddenly becomes afraid that Spock somehow knows about him being… bisexual (he can barely think the word; he's always been ashamed of his attraction). He tries to convince himself that this fear is unreasonable, but he can do little to quash it.

As soon as he is dressed (in a gold button-down shirt, gray slacks, and very strange black shoes evidently called "deck shoes," according to Spock, who is of course somehow an expert on obscure early 21st century footwear), he feels much better. He waggles his eyebrows at Spock, who looks both stoic and exasperated, as per usual. Spock is wearing a blue button-down shirt, black slacks, and black "Oxfords," ostensibly another type of shoe. Spock's clothes do not fit as well as Kirk's, which makes sense, because this is Kirk's house, sort of. Kirk wonders for a moment why Spock did not get his own house, but does not dwell on the question.

Kirk decides to call McCoy before they leave.

"Hello?"

"Bones? It's Jim. How's the search going?"

"I can tell you anythin' you'd like about this town we're in."

"Chestnut, right?"

"Yup. It's about forty miles west of Timber, twenty-five miles east of Gilly. Population nine thousand. Evidently I'm the town doctor."

"We've got professions?"

"I don't know about you, but I certainly do. Thank God it's Saturday, or I'd have to be at work."

"Is it? How do you know what day it is?"

"My computer's tellin' me. I could barely figure out how to work the thing. It has a _mouse_, for the love of God."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yup. Ford pickup. Looks a hell of a lot like the one I've got back on Earth. Jim, this is weird."

"I know, Bones. We're trying to figure out what's going on." He pauses as something occurs to him. "Do me a favor—in that address book of yours, see if anybody else is familiar. Maybe Scotty is here, or Sulu—_our_ Scotty and Sulu, not… not their doubles."

"I'll look and give 'em a call if they are," says McCoy.

"Spock and I are going to drive around the town. Come over as soon as you can so we can work on this together."

"Alright. Bye, Jim."

Spock, incongruously, has been watching him talk to McCoy instead of prowling around the house, but since Spock does not comment on this, Kirk does not either. They walk outside, Spock leading since he has been out here before. The exterior of the house looks much better than the interior. There are carefully tended flowerbeds under the windows and even a small herb garden underneath the spigot. The silver car parked under a shiny new carport at the house's right side is a bit battered, but quite upper middle class, down to the brushed paneling and wrinkled leather seats. There is a parking pass hanging from the rear view mirror. Kirk gets into the car and removes it: the pass reads, _Chestnut High School Faculty Parking Pass: 1_.

"I'm a teacher?" says Kirk skeptically.

Spock shrugs. He has settled himself uneasily in the passenger's seat. Kirk grins at him, lifting the keys out of the cup holder. "This one's an automatic, Spock. It should be easier to drive."

"I certainly hope so," Spock murmurs, buckling his seatbelt with a resonant _click_.

Kirk takes a moment to start the thing (Spock flinching and shuddering every time Kirk does something wrong; That man has got to be more positive, Kirk thinks) and backs jerkily out of the driveway.

The trees are unnaturally thick around Kirk's house, they see as they drive into town. They are directed, at nearly every intersection, by small green signs that point the way towards Chestnut proper. Kirk does not live far from the city center. Chestnut is a windblown, open place. There are pavers in the streets and only a few stoplights on the too-wide roads. The stores are built low, one and two stories, mainly with red and brown brick or whitewashed cinderblocks. It is early Saturday morning and the air is quiet. They encounter few other cars, and the people they see in shops, vehicles, and on the sidewalks are somehow indistinct, many of them merely hunched shoulders and the fluffy tops of heads.

Kirk gets the hang of the car faster than he expects. Spock is still twitching whenever Kirk has to turn or brake or speed up, which is sort of funny, but Kirk is not in the mood for laughing. There is something very sad about this place. No, sad is not right—depressing. Dull. _Desolate_, that is it. There is an inordinate amount of dust on the streets and buildings, and the sky is much wider than it ought to be, like it is a vast blue eye crying pathetic little clouds of sand onto the town.

"I don't know why, but I don't like this place," says Kirk.

Spock does not reply, and Kirk thinks Spock does not approve of this emotional judgment, but when he glances at Spock's face, he realizes that Spock might be thinking the same thing he is.

They pass what must be McCoy's office—it's small, with a little plaque out front that says,_ Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., clinic hours 8 am—6 pm weekdays, call 911 for emergencies_. There's a mechanic's shop nearby, across from a nice-looking bar called Shaw's and a grocery store, Kathleen's. The road they are on, Oak Street, is the main drag. The city hall is small but impressive, a Cretaceous limestone building located on its own block in the center of town.

They have decided to go back to the house when Spock says hoarsely, "Captain—stop."

Kirk hits the brakes and pulls over, ignoring an angry honk from a Chevy behind him. Spock is staring out of his window. Kirk leans around him.

"Oh," says Kirk, unsure how to react. "Well, I guess we know what you do, now."

They are halted in front of a small office with a sign over the door that says, _Spock and Chapel, Attorneys at Law._

"Fascinating," says Spock, dry-mouthed.

"You _would_ be a lawyer," says Kirk. "You and Nurse Chapel would probably scare the shit out of judges. Let's go home, okay?"

"That house is not home," says Spock sharply.

"I know, but what am I supposed to call it?"

"Your 'false residence' would be appropriate, I believe," says Spock.

"Fine. Let's go back to my _false residence_," snaps Kirk, not sure why he is so offended. The rest of the drive is spent in silence.

Kirk turns off the car just as a pickup pulls up to the curb. McCoy, dressed in a flannel shirt, dusty blue jeans, and actual cowboy boots, slides easily out of his Ford.

"Captain," he says, a wide grin on his face despite the situation. "Nice town. My kinda place."

"It's depressing as fuck, Bones."

McCoy shrugs. "I like it. The dust is nice—like fog."

Spock is positively emitting scorn. "If the two of you are finished setting the tone?" he says tartly.

McCoy shoots Spock a Look, but otherwise ignores him. "Jim, I called everybody in my book that I recognized, and four of 'em turned out to be—well, like us, I guess. Lieutenant Commander Scott, Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura, and Ensign Chekov are jus' as puzzled about this place as we are. I told 'em to stay put; figured we could call 'em back once we'd come up with a plan." He holds up a largish brown rectangle. "I brought my address book along."

"The object is not _yours_," says Spock irritably. "This place is no more home to our beds or our possessions as is a hotel room."

"Well, excuse me! I'm not the one gettin' all worked up over se_man_tics—"

"Gentlemen," says Kirk calmly. "Shall we go inside and discuss the situation?"

Spock and McCoy eye each other before stalking through the front door, one after the other. Kirk sighs and follows them.

"Nice place," says McCoy skeptically, dropping into a folding chair at the vinyl card table that evidently constitutes Kirk's dining room set. "You lookin' to sell? I know some people who love fix-me-ups."

"The aliens seem to think I'm a slob," Kirk explains. Spock has seated himself primly in another folding chair, so Kirk sits too. "Mr. Spock? What is your analysis of the situation?"

Spock takes a breath and begins. "We appear to be in an entirely realistic early twenty-first century town in the United States of America. We have professions, houses of our own, and friends, if I do not misinterpret the photograph in the office. I hypothesize that we have been placed here by a race of creatures with interest in psychological research. However, I have seen no evidence that this place is not real—not a construction by the aliens—leading me to the conclusion that they are either more powerful than we have the capability to measure or they have placed us into an alternate universe with preconstructed identities. It is also possible that there is no driving force behind our appearance here, and that we have simply entered into this alternate universe as a matter of galactic chance."

Kirk and McCoy blink at him.

"There's no way to get out of this?" says Kirk slowly.

"Not that occurs to me currently," says Spock indifferently.

"What about time travel?" says McCoy abruptly. They stare at him. Abashed, McCoy explains, "I know, I'm not generally interested in flingin' the ship around the sun or whatever it is we do n'order to run around durin' different eras, but if it'll get us home…"

Spock contemplates. "I could theoretically construct a device that would allow me to observe future-tense temporal patterns and analyze their indicators," he says.

"I'm a doctor, not a—"

"… a device that would allow me to see the future, doctor," says Spock patiently, as if he is speaking to a small child. McCoy, completing the image, pouts at him.

Kirk, though, frowns. "What if we're on the leading edge of time?"

"What if we're _what_?" says McCoy.

"According to temporal mechanics—" Spock starts.

"Er, I'll explain," Kirk interrupts apologetically. "You'll just hurt his brain, Spock. Bones, from what we know about time travel, it's not possible to travel into the future if you're at the leading edge of time. See, time isn't laid out—there really is a past, a present, and a future. _Hypothetically_. Since our time period has had visitors from the future, then we must not be at the leading edge of time. But, we theorize that the leading edge of time does exist. At the leading edge, we are unable to accurately predict the future. In the past, we are _also_ unable to accurately predict the future, because one of the natural laws of the universe has to do with people not knowing their fates, but that's beyond the point. The difference is, at the leading edge, there _is_ no future: no 'future-tense temporal patterns,' as Mr. Spock so ingeniously calls them, while in the past, we can see future-tense temporal patterns, but are unable to accurately interpret them."

McCoy stares at him.

"Did that make any sense?"

"Well, yeah, but—Spock? You can actually build a machine that can see into the future?"

"Theoretically."

"Okay… but—"

There is sudden noise and McCoy jumps, his hand going to his hip. He extracts a small clamshell cell phone from his pocket and stares at it as it rings.

"Answer it," urges Kirk.

McCoy flips it open and holds the thing to his ear. "Hello?" he says guardedly. A faint female voice buzzes from the speaker and McCoy's eyebrows shoot into his hair. "Oh, uh, you are? … I'm—I'm at Jim's… I'm not sure… Okay, I will… I love you too. Bye." He lowers the cell phone slowly and closes it.

"Who was that?" Kirk demands.

"Joanna," says McCoy, white as a sheet. "My daughter," he adds to Spock, who looks puzzled.

"Your _daughter_?" says Kirk, watching McCoy closely. "I hadn't even thought about that."

McCoy shrugs in an attempt at being casual. "Yeah, me neither. Guess I shoulda looked at all the rooms in my house. I was wonderin' why there was so much food in the refrigerator I didn't like." He slips the cell phone back into his pocket. "She said she was comin' back from Jocelyn's," he adds, seemingly offhand.

Even Spock knows about Jocelyn. He and Kirk trade looks.

"Do you need to leave?" Kirk asks carefully. Spock opens his mouth, and Kirk knows it is to say something along the lines of, _She's not really your daughter_. Kirk cannot let him say that and kicks his shin softly under the table. Spock jumps a little, but McCoy does not see. He is too busy staring at the ground.

"No, she—she's sixteen, I can tell. The same age she is back home. She can take care of herself. She said so."

"Okay," says Kirk, thinking it's best to deal with the situation at hand now and McCoy's mental state later. "Listen, I'm going to go get everybody. We could use extra minds on this. Bones, you stay here and bother Spock."

"Captain," says Spock sharply, "how are you going to locate—"

McCoy holds up four sheets of paper.

"I'm not too shabby at workin' old technology," says McCoy, not even trying to keep the pride out of his voice. "I believe they called it 'MapQuest.'"

"Good job, Bones," says Kirk, snatching the papers and staring at them. "Excellent. I can follow these."

"I made them as simple as possible," says McCoy innocently. Kirk glares at him and McCoy grins back.

"I'll be back soon," says Kirk. "You two… don't kill each other."

McCoy's expression says, I can't promise that. Spock's expression says nothing at all.

Kirk drives. The ground flows past like a flood. That is the nature of this place, he thinks; I can tell already. It invokes the stream-like movement of starships through space, even though the waters are gone from its sun-dried earth.

Scotty's house is flat and wide, near the middle of town. Kirk can see a large garage at the back filled with cars and trucks and other vehicles. Scotty trundles out of the low front door, his strapping form ungainly in a collared shirt and slacks. He has a tie draped around his neck and runs his hand through his short, thick brown hair. He grins at Kirk as he sits in the car, eyes flashing.

"Ah cannae figure out how t' tie this thing," Scotty says, waving the ends of the tie around. "But, 'tis nae important. How are we doin' on gettin' home?"

"First, we've got to figure out where we are," says Kirk. "I'll explain it all at once, when we're back. How is your… house?"

"Nearly perfect," says Scotty, buckling his seatbelt and twisting uncomfortably in his seat. "Scarily so. Ah own a mechanic's shop an' a used-car lot. I'm a handy businessman, if ah do say so myself. Make a tidy sum, it seems."

Uhura's house is nicer than he expected it to be. It is beige stucco with columns supporting the awning and spiky green ferns framing the modern door. It is on the eastern edge of town, in a nice neighborhood. Uhura exits her house wearing a plain-looking blouse and skirt. Her hair is down, and it looks strange out of its normal, teased state. She seems atypically unobtrusive; generally her aura is exotic, but here, she has become bland.

"Captain," says Uhura formally, seating herself carefully in the back. Kirk watches as she steals a long glance at Scotty to make sure he is unharmed, and as Scotty restrains himself from doing the same. Kirk has not really noticed, before this, how close the two were; he wonders if they are together. The thought makes him feel empty.

"Lieutenant," he acknowledges as he pulls away. "Have you done much research on your current… persona?"

"I have," she says, making direct eye contact with Kirk in the rear view mirror. "Nyota Uhura is the station manager at the regional radio station. The call sign might interest you—it is 'KNCC.' The last three letters are undoubtedly significant, but I am not sure in what way. I doubt that those letters stand for 'Naval Construction Contract,' however."

Sulu's house is even more impressive than Uhura's. Built with stoic, formal white brick, round windows, and tasteful landscaping, it is in the bluest, most expensive neighborhood in Chestnut, where the yards overflow with thick grass grown with expensive water. Sulu has put quite a bit of effort into his image. He is immaculate in ironed, steel-gray slacks and a wine-colored collared shirt. There is a messenger bag draped over his shoulder. It has always been an unspoken assumption amongst the crew that Sulu is homosexual, and his appearance now reinforces the belief.

"Hello, Captain, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant," says Sulu mildly to each of them as he buckles himself into the middle seat in the back. "How are we doing?"

"Quite well, considering," says Kirk as he pulls away. "What have you found out about yourself?"

"I am the director of the Harlen County Arboretum and an avid airplane enthusiast in my spare time," says Sulu proudly. "I am a well-respected member of Chestnut society."

"Some things never change, I suppose," says Kirk wryly. Sulu was certainly popular back on the _Enterprise_.

"Indeed," Sulu laughs. He and Uhura smile at each other; they have always been good friends. Scotty watches them indulgently, clearly unthreatened by Sulu.

Chekov lives in a small, brown apartment in what is quite obviously the bad part of town. He flies down the steps, looking worried and tired, and hurries into the car, greeting everybody quickly. He is dressed casually, in blue jeans and a t-shirt. Kirk thinks he seems particularly young out of uniform. The kid is just now twenty-one, and even though he has proven himself time and time again on missions and on the bridge, his youth leaps out at Kirk sometimes.

"Ensign Chekov, how are your living arrangements?" Kirk asks.

"Less zan ideal, sir," says Chekov, brushing his long hair out of his eyes. Sulu glances at this action, holding Chekov's hand with his gaze. "I seem to be a graduate student in physics at Astra College, which is ewidently in Gilly, a city nearby." He makes a face. "My roommates are unpleasant. I do not enjoy zeir company."

Sulu looks concerned for Chekov's sake, but Chekov does not acknowledge this. Kirk had certainly noticed their dynamic before, although he doesn't know if they are together; he can never tell, with Chekov, if the kid is innocent or merely a good actor. Plus, Chekov has always seemed pretty straight, but hell, if he, Kirk, is not straight, who is?

It occurs to him that they have each discovered who they are—what they do—except for Kirk, who does not know what subject he teaches at the local high school. He was a tactics, command, and history instructor at the Academy before starting his service on the _USS Farragut_. Perhaps, he thinks, he teaches history in this world too. It makes more sense than math or English or even P.E.

For the first time he wonders what they—Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov—will think when they see his house. Before, he has not really been concerned by what the aliens thought of them, by what jobs and personalities the aliens constructed on their behalf. But now, after seeing that everybody but Chekov has a much nicer house than he does, he is worried. Perhaps the aliens were right about him. Maybe, no matter where he lives, he will never feel like he is home.

The thought has worried him before, but now, faced with something straight out of his subconscious, the fear shoves itself to the forefront of his mind. It is a dark, consuming thought. Kirk does not fear death, nor pain, nor destruction: he knows that he is strong enough to resist what tries to kill him or rip him apart. But this is different. This place seems like a manifestation of everything that truly scares him. There is evidence out there of his sexuality, and he does not know when or if his crew will encounter it. There is the chance that he will never get to see his _Enterprise_ again, the closest thing he has to a lover. There is also the beginning of the day, when he awoke next to Spock—and he is just now admitting this to himself—but for a moment, he had thought all of it was his dream made real. Because no matter where he is, if Spock is with him—really _with_ him, not just as his first officer—Kirk knows that he will be fine.

The thought should not reassure him, but it does. He drives faster, missing Spock, and when they arrive at his house, Kirk rushes inside, not even watching people's expressions as they take in their surroundings. He sits down next to Spock, who, with McCoy, has arranged seven chairs around the table. The others take their places. Kirk brushes close to Spock to feel the weight of sanity again.

Spock explains the situation, although he knows as much as they do. He tells them that is entirely possible to build the theoretical device he needs to see—or not see, as the case may be—into the future. He enlists Scotty and Chekov's help, and they go off into a corner to do science-y things. Sulu, meanwhile, brings up something pretty important.

"How should we treat this place?" he asks, leaning seriously across the table.

Uhura looks confused, but both Kirk and McCoy know what he's talking about.

McCoy glances at Kirk. "We haven't discussed that," McCoy says. Kirk rubs his chin.

"I think," Kirk says slowly, "that we should treat this place like home."

Sulu is skeptical. "Why?" he says dismissively. "We have no proof that this world is real, not a construct of some sort."

"But we have no proof that it is _not_ real," says Kirk firmly. "What if we have somehow found ourselves in a place that other people, like ourselves, inhabited until we arrived? We should treat their world with respect." Something occurred to him, suddenly. "What if we switched places with these second selves, and they are on the _Enterprise_ right now?"

"Like what happened in the mirror universe?" says Uhura, wide-eyed. "Captain, if that is the case, they could be handling the running of the _Enterprise_ as we speak, if we are to assume that they look and act as we do."

"They will not be exactly like we are," says Kirk. He takes a breath and continues, "Look around this house, Lieutenant. Do you think the James Kirk who lives here is at all like I am? This place is no home, but simply a house; we are by no means the same person." It feels untrue to say this, because even though the surface of his thoughts believes it, his subconscious is, quite horribly, protesting this misinterpretation of his interior self.

"I see what you mean, Captain," says Uhura, stealing another glance around the room.

"There is a problem," Kirk acknowledges to the group. "Since we'll be going about our, er, regular routine—the regular routine expected of us in this universe, I'm sure Mr. Spock would like me to say—we will have to do jobs that we know little about and socialize with people that we do not remember. We should avoid, at all costs, to reveal ourselves as extraterrestrials… as it were."

"Maybe I'm not the brightest, but there seems to be a little problem with that idea," says McCoy in a low voice. "Spock."

Kirk is puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"The hobgoblin's got pointed ears," says McCoy slowly, drawing out the last phrase as if what he is saying is obvious; which, really, it is. "I'm gonna go out on a long damn limb and assume that this early 2000s Earth is the same as our early 2000s Earth. There weren't any Vulcans in this time period, Jim."

Kirk considers cursing. Why has this not occurred to him?

"This complicates our hypotheses, it would seem," says Sulu thoughtfully. "Surely any sociological or psychological experiment would have taken into account species differences and… compensated accordingly. Perhaps the people of this world will simply not notice Spock's Vulcan features."

"But it'd be a bad idea to test that theory," says McCoy. "What if it's not somethin' 'compensated' for, and then we've got some human runnin' around talkin' about Spock's strange new ears and eyebrows?"

"The eyebrows are relatively easy to deal with," says Kirk. "A razor and some makeup should do the trick. The ears, though, are significantly harder to hide." He sighs. "Perhaps we will cross that bridge when we come to it. I, for one, am afraid of mentioning this to Spock." He shares a knowing smile with McCoy. "As I was saying, on Monday morning, we will all be going to work."

"And school," Sulu points out for Chekov.

"And school," Kirk includes graciously. "If nothing else, this incident will be a fascinating look at early 21st century culture. We should take notes."

"You sound like Marla McGivers used to," says McCoy grumpily. "'Fascinating' my ass. You weren't in my medical history class. They cut people up in this era, you know. Doctors'r still usin' stitches and antibiotics, for Christ's sake, and there's even animal experimentation."

"We'll just have to avoid injury, then," says Kirk lightly as Uhura shudders. "We have Sunday to prepare for our jobs. Spock will—"

The doorbell rings.

Spock, with Scotty and Chekov, turn to stare at Kirk, whose eyes are fixed on the door. Uhura lets out a quiet noise like a whimper. The atmosphere has gone from determined to jaggedly on edge.

"Mr. Spock, remove yourself to another room or find a hat," says Kirk, standing. "Everybody else… act natural."

There are quiet murmurs of, "Yes, sir," and Spock slips out of the kitchen. Kirk feels open and unprotected without him there, but presses the feeling back. He crosses to the door and wishes the aliens had thought to give his house a peephole. He takes a deep breath, assumes that whatever is on the other side of the door will not hurt him, and opens it.

Standing on his ragged welcome mat is a teenaged girl with long, curly brown hair and ice-blue eyes. She is wearing a purple tank top and cutoff blue jean shorts with more attitude than Kirk generally sees reflected in a human stance. There is a pink-and-black messenger bag draped between her ample breasts. Her face is heavily made up, but underneath it, she looks like a younger, feminine version of McCoy.

"Hey, Mr. Kirk," the girl—who is clearly Joanna—says, sounding bored. "Dad said he was here. Can I come in, or what?"

"Um," says Kirk. "Yes, of course." He steps out of the doorway and Joanna walks inside.

"Hey dad," she calls, pulling her bag over her head and dropping it on the threadbare couch before even looking around the room. "Oh, hey guys," she says, perking up noticeably when she sees Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty. "I didn't know all of y'all were here. Where's Shen?"

The question is directed at the room at large, which makes the silence that follows it even larger: nobody can answer the question, since they have no idea who Shen is.

"Uh, nobody jump to answer," Joanna says. "You guys okay?"

"We're fine, Jo," says McCoy, almost automatically. There is a frantic look in his eyes, but his voice is steady. "How was Jocelyn's?"

"Not bad," says Joanna slowly. "Seriously, what's up? Where's Shen?"

"I'm not sure," says McCoy.

There is a long silence.

"There's something wrong," says Joanna jerkily. She had taken a few steps into the room, but has now retreated to the couch. Kirk is blocking the door, trying not to seem intimidating but not wanting her to leave, either. "What's is it? You guys, what happened?"

"Nothin' happened, Jo," says McCoy, obviously keeping himself from getting up and going over to Joanna. "We just—we were just talkin', before you came in."

"No, I'm sure you were," says Joanna, more raw than ever. "But dad, you—" She stops, evidently unsure of what to say. "I don't know. You don't seem right."

McCoy opens and closes his mouth once before Spock re-enters the room clad in a nondescript beanie. He glances at Joanna and takes a seat at the card table as casually as Kirk has ever seen him do anything.

"Greetings," he says to Joanna once he is seated.

"Hey," she says, sounding almost relieved. "I know you're incapable of lying. What's going on with these guys?"

"Nothing untoward that I am aware of," says Spock.

"Okay, I know you have issues with facial expressions, but come on, the tension is palpable," Joanna says. "You could cut it with a knife."

"Excuse me?" says Spock, frowning.

"It's a figure of speech," Joanna explains with a strange ease and willingness. "Sometimes, people get really stiff and awkward around each other, and in books, if things are really _wrought_, the author says, 'the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife.' Weird that you haven't heard that one."

"I have 'heard that one,'" says Spock. "I see. I did not, as you said, sense the tension in the room."

"Well, it's there, so what's up with it?"

"I am not sure," says Spock. "Forgive me for being of little help."

"It's cool," says Joanna. She seems much less worried, though Kirk is not sure why—nothing has really changed, except that she spoke with Spock. She turns a frown on McCoy. "You really won't tell me what's up, dad?"

"If anythin' was up, I might not tell you about it anyway," says McCoy.

Joanna wrinkles her nose at him. "Fine. Whatever. I'm just here to hang out and do homework, anyway. You mind, Mr. Kirk?" she asks Kirk.

"Not at all," says Kirk, sweeping his arm casually around the living room. "_Mi casa es su casa_."

"_Gracias_," says Joanna, and tosses herself onto the couch. "Ignore me," she tells everyone, fluttering a limp wrist over the top of the cushions.

"We will," McCoy assures her in his most measured tone, while staring in terror at the back of her head.

Kirk is nonplussed for a moment, as is everybody else. Then he says to the room, "People, I found a book I thought you might like—it's in my office. Come see?" He starts towards the back hallway.

"You're not subtle, Mr. Kirk," Joanna sings over the couch.

"I try my best," replies Kirk, grabbing McCoy and lifting his still form bodily from the chair. "Go," he hisses at everybody else.

They all hurry into the office, Kirk dragging the paralyzed McCoy. It's cramped, but nobody seems to mind; they are all too stiff with something strangely like fear to be concerned about personal space.

"I am so sorry," McCoy says immediately, still wide-eyed. "I had no idea she was gonna show up. God, Jim, what am I supposed to do? She's exactly the same!"

"That sounds like a good thing," says Kirk soothingly. "It means you can deal with her without her suspecting anything."

"She already suspects somethin'!" protests McCoy. "She's a smart kid; she should suspect somethin'!"

"I fail to understand the urgency of the issue at hand," says Spock, a frown wrinkling his brow. "I personally am working under the assumption that if we continue to act as we are, our presence will be undetectable to the population of this world. Our previous selves, as it were, must have been significantly similar to our present selves. I gathered that Mr. Scott found his dwelling and employment much to his liking, and Dr. McCoy seems to enjoy this place's romanticized nature."

McCoy rolls his eyes.

"Just because I like the country doesn't mean people'll take me seriously as a twenty-first century doctor. If I have to go in to work in the morning, I'll be gapin' all over townspeople who know my name, rank, and serial number when I don't know a hint of theirs."

"You could just ask," says Joanna's voice from the door.

Everybody whirls around almost comically. Joanna is watching them—mostly McCoy—with an absolutely blank expression.

"I'm not sure who you are," she says, looking McCoy in the eye, "but I know you're my dad, and if you need any help, I can give it."

There is another long silence.

"Why are you convinced that he is your father?" Spock asks.

Joanna frowns. "He seems like him," she says uncertainly. "Really, I'm not that convinced, but I am interested."

"You are reacting remarkably well."

"How else am I supposed to react?" Joanna demands. "And since when—" She stops. "Really—what's going on?"

Kirk lets out a long breath. "Shall we?" he says to Spock.

"I do not see the disadvantage of bringing Ms. McCoy up to speed," says Spock. "I would recommend returning to the living area."

They file dutifully back into the kitchen. Joanna hops up on the formica counter, near McCoy's chair. He is watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she is ignoring him.

As everybody is sitting down, Scotty looks at Joanna and asks, "What year is this, lass?"

Joanna's eyes widen. "2006," she says. She frowns and adds a belated, "B.C. Why?"

"Because where we come from, it is 2270," Kirk says.

Joanna's jaw is hanging low on her chest. "You're from the future?" she says with marked incredulity. "Then how is he my dad?" She nods at McCoy, who glares at her.

"I'll always be your father, don't think you can escape me," growls McCoy.

"That right there, the threat," says Joanna indignantly to Kirk. "One of the reasons this is definitely dad."

"We do not come from the future, exactly," says Spock. "We come from another universe. If you could help us understand exactly what shall be expected of us at our places of employment, we would be appreciative."

"Wait," Joanna says firmly, throwing a flat palm towards Spock. "First, tell me more about what's going on."

They explain things as best they can. Joanna is fascinated to hear about her dimensional twin, and delighted when McCoy tells her that they are nearly the same person. She is just as confused as they are about why they are here. The questions she asks are mostly mysterious. She seems amazed that they have come from a spacecraft, that there is a Federation, and that there are other planets.

Her strongest reaction occurs when Spock, clearly tired of giving information rather than receiving it, says, "Ms. McCoy, would you please tell me what you know of a certain 'Chapel,' who I assume is my partner in law?"

"Sure. She's in love with you," Joanna says blithely.

There is yet another extended silence at this. Scotty and Sulu look like they are about to laugh. Kirk grins, noting the parallels in their universes.

Spock looks taken aback. "That—that was not precisely the information I requested," he says.

"Did you date Nyota?" Joanna asks curiously.

Uhura sits up in her chair, and Scotty's face goes still. Spock's eyebrows knit slightly. "Excuse me?" he says. "I have not entered into a formal relationship with any crewmember on board the _Enterprise_."

Sulu coughs quietly. Spock does not blink.

"You dated her in this world," Joanna says. "For two and a half years."

Spock turns to Uhura, who sees Spock as if she were staring down the barrel of a gun.

"You don't know what your connection is, do you?" Joanna asks the room slowly. "Back in your universe, you're the—command people, or something. Right?"

"We are the primary bridge crew," says Spock, almost stiffly.

"Sure. That. Here, think about everything in terms of _this_ universe," says Joanna. "What reason do any of you have to know Pavel? He's a college student, and the rest of you are professionals. Nyota, you rarely cross paths with Mr. Kirk; I mean, you're a radio station manager and he works at a high school. And Hikaru, you're one of the richest guys in town. Why are you such good friends with the local used car salesman?"

"I have the feeling you are going to tell us," says Kirk dryly.


	5. Enterprise University

**Summary: **Yet another college AU, but this one's unfinished.

x

**Enterprise University**

x

Cil ke seivent de lettuüre,

Devreint bien mettre cure

Es bons livres e escriz

E as essamples e as diz

Ke li philosophe troverent

E escristrent e remembrerent.

—Marie de France, _Fables_

x

(Opening file… Please wait… File opened!

Name: Kirk, James Tiberius  
Age: 18  
Original residence: Riverside, Iowa  
Status: Deferred by choice, indefinitely  
Concentration: Undeclared

Would you like to display more information? Input y/n)

_c_pike:dean_ugs_, input: [y]

(High school: Riverside High School

High school grade point average: 0.34

Class rank: 894/926

First submitted SAT I score: 2395

Second submitted SAT I score: 2400

First submitted ACT score: 36

Would you like to display the applicant's police record? Input y/n)

_c_pike:dean_ugs_, input: [y]

(Loading… loading… loading… Error. Cannot load document. Insufficient memory on this mobile device. Cancel load? Input y/n)

_c_pike:dean_ugs, _input: [sigh]

(Error. Input not recognized.)

_c_pike:dean_ugs, _input: [y], input, [logoff]

x

James Kirk stood in front of a tall statue of Columbia. One white hand held a torch high into the sky, and the other grasped a branch of laurel leaves, which spread across her stomach. The marble gleamed in the morning light. The statue stood on a circular plinth in the middle of a ring of trees. Six concrete sidewalks arrayed outwards from the statue. To the right was a large white marble building with Ionic pillars to the sides, the frieze reading: _Veritas Vincit._ Undergrads lounged on the steps. To the left were more buildings, these of varying white granite, pink granite, and brick, all large and columned, some with wide glass porticos or panels of gleaming window.

Jim stuck his tongue out at the statue, shrugged his duffel over his shoulder, and kept walking.

Enterprise University was the top-ranked public school in the nation. Most of the students around him were wearing suits or carrying honest-to-God briefcases. Jim stared at them. He didn't think he'd ever seen somebody in Iowa carry a briefcase non-ironically. The students either ignored him or gave him the stink eye, which he figured had to do with his incredibly dirty clothes. Was it his fault that he'd accidentally taken an unpaved road on his way in to the city? Motorcycles weren't enclosed vehicles, after all.

He had to ask for directions to Kirk Dormitory, which was more than a little ironic. The woman he asked for help was a cheery blonde who was apparently living there as well. She pointed him across Kennedy Street, to where the dorm squatted archly between two larger buildings. Jim hadn't thought a building could be arch before, but the dorm was so Ivy League pretentious that it made his eyes water. He skirted underneath the iron archway, up the nameplate-paved steps, and into the lobby.

The lobby was surprisingly comfortable. It had paneled oak walls and soft chairs and couches. The lamps were knockoff Tiffany, though, which seemed really unnecessary. Jim unloaded his duffel at the front desk and leaned on it, pleased that he was spreading dust over the black marble reception.

A woman with incredibly bright red hair stuck her head out of an engraved doorway. "Hello!" she said cheerily. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm checking in," said Jim, pulling his driver's license out of his wallet.

"Oh, _excellent_!" cried the woman, running forward on three-inch lime-green heels. She was wearing a tiny, _tiny_ red dress and clutching a copy of _Transactions on Aspect Oriented Software Development_. "Oh and you have a state ID and everything, wonderful. Hi!" She stuck her pink-laquered hand over the desk. They shook hands. "I'm Gaila. It's wonderful to meet you! I'm your RA."

"Cool," said Jim, liking her immediately. "Nice shoes."

"Oh, thank you, they're the spring line from Target," said Gaila. "I'm not really a fashion plate, I just like looking good. You're in room 170 on the very first floor—I'm only a few doors down from you! Here's your key, and you'll need to go by the Cooper building to get a student ID. Until then, here's a temporary card you can use to swipe in to the dorms. They're locked at night from eleven till six; overnight guests have to be checked in." Gaila scooted back a little and tilted her head, looking at Jim like he was a puzzle she was trying to solve. "Let me guess… you're undeclared?"

"That I am," said Jim. "How'd you know?"

"The motorcycle," said Gaila. "Also, you're George Kirk's son, and I've heard you're a rebel."

Jim blanched. "How did you know?"

"Apparently the university is insane and set up an alert for when you check in," said Gaila. "Congratulations, you're being stalked."

"Well, that is slightly horrifying," said Jim. "Are the deans descending imminently? Any consequences listed?"

"No more info. Just a module procedure window," said Gaila. "Easy enough routine to install."

"Computer science?"

"Dual major, that and human sexuality," grinned Gaila.

"Excellent combination," said Jim, zero percent surprised. "Okay, I'm going to go make sure they haven't bugged my room."

"Check the mirrors," advised Gaila. "And let me know if you need anything! I'm on call for another four hours. Room 164 if I'm not at the desk!"

Kirk wandered down a short flight of stairs and into a corridor. There were nice Buster end tables decorating the hallway with bronze pots of fake plants and leather-bound copies of books like _Anna Karenina_ and _The Critique of Practical Reason_. The room numbers had started at 138 and went up, so he figured he was heading in the right direction.

He reached the room right in time to dodge the bottle of Jack Daniels being thrown out of it at high velocity.

x

(Opening file… Please wait… File opened!

Name: Spock, Ta'chen Sha'gai  
Age: 22  
Original residence: New York City, New York  
Status: Enrolled in the School of Graduate Studies  
Concentrations: Linguistics, Biochemistry, Physics, Philosophy

Would you like to display more information? Input y/n)

_k_singh:grad_advisor_, input: [y]

(College: Yale University

Concentrations: Linguistics, Biochemistry, Physics, Philosophy

University grade point average: 4.0

Class rank: 1/2,032

First submitted GRE score: 800)

x

Ta'chen Sha'gai Spock was generally very efficient. He scheduled his time to the minute every day: twenty minutes of tae bo right after he woke up, eight minutes for a shower, two minutes for brushing teeth, seven minutes for dressing, three minutes for packing his bag, twenty minutes for transportation. Once he arrived at campus, he parked himself in Starbucks for exactly fifty-six minutes, because it took exactly four minutes to walk to the Linguistics 398 class he TAed for.

But Spock did not use his cell phone for an alarm, which meant that when the power flickered, which it apparently had the night before, it reset the clock on his nightstand, deleting the 7:00 am alarm. Before that morning, Spock had had no sympathy for the undergrads that burst in, midway through the test, in pajamas and clutching the Sharpie they'd accidentally grabbed instead of a number two pencil. But now, as he stared, horrified, at the real time listed on his cell phone, he felt remorse stirring deep within him. Also panic.

"Scotty!" he hissed into the phone as he pulled on some black slacks. "Are you at school? Can you drive me?"

"Ah've been in Taiker for two hours workin' on th' laser, you know my schedule," said Scotty. "Didja—fer God's sake, Lee, stop changin' th' refraction rate—didja miss your _alarm_, Spock?"

Spock hung up rather than answer that. He shoved two of the right books and four of the wrong books into his bag, slipped into his loafers, grabbed a bottle of Naked Juice, and threw himself at the door.

x

(Opening file… Please wait… File opened!

Name: McCoy, Leonard Horatio  
Age: 23  
Original residence: Birmingham, Alabama  
Status: Enrolled in the Kelley School of Medicine  
Concentration: Medicine, subcategory Surgery, subcategory Psychiatry

College: University of Mississippi

Concentration: Biochemistry, Psychology

University grade point average: 4.0

Class rank: 4/3,602

First submitted GRE score: 800)

x

"Holy shit," said Kirk.

The bottle of Jack shattered against the wall. It was mercifully empty. A tall, fiercely blue-eyed man with dark, tousled hair came storming out of the room. "Wha'd'ya'afta to go and do that for?" he yelled at the wall. "Why? _Why_?"

"Okay," said Kirk, putting his bags down very carefully and putting his hands out, palms open. "Hey. Dude. Chill."

"_Chill_?" Blue-eyes shrieked, turning to look at Kirk for the first time. He was actually spitting a little. _Psychotic_ was maybe an understatement. "My scholarship jus' got revoked! Do ya _know_ how much med school costs?"

"A lot?" hazarded Kirk unwisely. Blue-eyes let out an actual roar and stamped back into the room. Kirk started after him, but the door slammed shut with so much force that the room number fell off the wall.

"Okay," said Kirk again. "Well. They weren't kidding about the roommates you get in college." He gathered himself up and knocked, very tentatively, on the door. There was a grumbling shuffle inside.

"_What_," growled Blue-eyes. Kirk could hear his breathing.

"I'd love to counsel you about this," said Kirk. "Also, I'm your roommate, so could you let me in?"

"Oh hell," said Blue-eyes, ripping the door open again. He was framed there, towering rather and taking big breaths. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Oh no," said Kirk, going back for his bags but not taking his eyes off of the man. "No, I get it. That sucks. Can I help?"

"Are you rich?" said Blue-eyes, holding the door for Kirk, who slid awkwardly under his arm.

"Yeah, actually," said Kirk, dumping his bags in the middle of the room and turning around, his hands in his pockets. "How much do you need?"

Blue-eyes blinked at him. "I thought you said 'roommate' earlier, not 'angel from heaven'."

"Phrases get mixed up a lot," Kirk offered.

"I'm Leonard McCoy," said Blue-eyes, sticking a big hand out. "You can call me Bones."

"Jim Kirk," said Kirk, shaking Bones's hand. "Nice to meet you, Bones."

x

(Name: Uhura, Nyota Nichelle  
Age: 18  
Residence; Boston, Massachusetts  
Status: Enrolled in the School of Undergraduate Studies  
Concentration: Communications Studies, Linguistics

High school: Boston Latin School

High school grade point average: 3.97

Class rank: 2/397

First submitted SAT I score: 2360

Second submitted SAT I score: 2400

First submitted ACT score: 35)

x

"Dad," said Uhura seriously. "I can get that."

He ignored her completely and hefted the box into his arms. She hurried forward, rolling her eyes, and caught the box as he dropped it with a yell.

"What have you got in there?" her father gasped, clutching at his back with his left hand as he steadied himself against the family Explorer with his right. "_Bricks?_"

"_You'd_ call them that," said Uhura sniffily. "My favorite books."

"You brought the hardcover versions, didn't you?" her father grumbled, massaging his spine. "Okay. You get those. I'll get…" He surveyed the remaining boxes nervously.

"That one," said Uhura, pointing to a very large box somehow balanced on top of all of the others.

"It's huge!" her father protested.

"It has my pillows in it," said Uhura, straightening up with the box of books in her arms and practically daring him to ask why she had brought an entire oversize box of pillows. "Come on, mom's holding the door!"

Her father grabbed the pillow box and followed his daughter to the entrance. Uhura grinned at her mom as she passed her. Her mother had her sunglasses on. She smiled weakly at her daughter. Uhura realized that her mother was trying not to cry.

Uhura and her father put their boxes down next to Uhura's door on the first floor, room 161. Uhura was just straightening up to go back for more when the door opened and her roommate came out.

"Need any help?" Gaila asked enthusiastically. "I just got off desk duty and I'm FULL of energy!"

"Uh," said Uhura warily. "Sure? Dad hurt his back this morning and I'm pretty sure mom's too emotional to carry bookshelves."

"I'll be _right there_," said Gaila, waggling her finger in Uhura's face. "Need shoes." She disappeared back into the room.

"She's very… cheerful," offered her father, leaning against the wall.

"Seriously," Nyota agreed. "And it's nice that she's an RA. And a junior. But I sort of wanted to have a freshman roommate, you know?"

"Don't worry, you'll get to know tons of freshmen," Gaila assured her, appearing as suddenly as she had left. Uhura glanced down at Gaila's shoes and was horrified to see that they were bright purple three-inch pumps. Gaila saw where she was looking and laughed. "Haven't unpacked my flip flops yet," she explained. "That's okay! I love heels."

"You are very strange," Uhura said.

"Thank you," said Gaila sincerely. They started back down the hall. "So, what's your major?"

"Linguistics," said Uhura. She added as an afterthought, "And communications studies."

"Neat," said Gaila appreciatively. "I'm human sexuality and computer science."

"You're _what?_" said Uhura, but they were back outside and Gaila was introducing herself to Uhura's mother. Uhura exchanged looks with her father, who shrugged and said, "That's college for you."

After they had gotten Uhura's things unloaded and plonked unceremoniously in her room, Uhura dropped her parents at a mall—Uhura's mother had to get a new watch battery and really looked like she wanted to be sans Uhura before she started crying—went by Target for paper towels, clothes hangers, and the other things you always forget when you're moving somewhere, and was nearly back to her dorm room when, as she was stopped at a red light, a man walked into her car. Hard.

She heard him exclaim and back up, making angry noises but not cursing. She rolled down her window, glancing at the light every few seconds. "Hey," she called, putting her arm on the passenger side seat. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes, I am fine," the man growled. He was bending over and feeling his knee, so Uhura could see his head. He had amazing cheekbones and black hair and an incredibly pale face. "I am sorry. I was in a hurry." He straightened and jogged, antsy, to the corner, which wasn't far away.

"Well," said Uhura, "need a lift?"

"That would be unwise," said the man, eyes narrowed. "Accepting gifts, including and _especially _car rides, from strangers is illogical and dangerous."

"Good point," said Uhura, digging her hand into her purse, "so take my driver's license until we get to where you're going. Somewhere on campus, I assume?"

"Yes, the Baker building," said the man automatically. He paused in his jog and scowled at Uhura for another moment, then opened the door and got in the car. "Thank you," he said mulishly, accepting her ID.

"You're very welcome." She smiled. "Nyota Uhura. Nice to meet you."

"Spock," said the man, nodding firmly. "The light is green."

"Oh, thanks," said Uhura, turning away and hitting the gas.

x

(Name: Scott, Montgomery Bernard  
Age: 21  
Residence: Bismarck, North Dakota  
Status: Enrolled in School of Undergraduate Studies  
Concentration: Mechanical Engineering, Aerospace Engineering

High school: Saint Mary's Central High School

High school grade point average: 4.0

Class rank: 1/92

First submitted SAT I score: 2380

Second submitted SAT I score: 2355

First submitted ACT score: 34)

x

Lee was a great guy, he really was. He had these painfully earnest eyes, and although Scotty was almost completely heterosexual, but he did know that Lee also had this way of wearing a suit like it was his mantle or crown or something. (Lee was a government/engineering/philosophy major, which broke Scotty's mind, and which also explained the suits.) Lee was also pretty smart. He could do math like nobody's business. He'd figured out how to fix an F-16 that one time. Apparently he had actually _read_ Locke, which Scotty thought was just masochistic, but also, yes, pretty impressive.

The point was that Lee, although he was a great guy (he really was), was shit at application. So it was as a last resort that Scotty had asked him to monitor the refraction rate on the levitator laser they'd been working on while he'd answered Spock's call (and also gotten a sandwich, but that was like breathing to Scotty; inconsequential and constant yet entirely necessary). When Scotty returned, he'd found Lee standing helplessly next to the chunk of iron they'd been testing the gravitational lensing on. It had melted into the ceramic test area.

"Sorry," said Lee, doing that crease with his eyebrows that made women either faint or offer to bring him things, like ice cream or their souls. Scotty pulled the shreds of his heterosexuality together and growled at Lee to go find the lab manager. Lee slunk off. Scotty stared at the test area in some despair. He ate his sandwich. Then he stared in despair a little more. Then he went over and tried to pry the iron off of the floor. Nothing doing. The despair continued.

Lee came back, towed by the lab manager, a tall, alarmingly gorgeous blonde who wore tiny black dresses half the time and tiny red dresses the other half. She sizzled horribly at both of them for a minute before dragging them next door to liberate a blowtorch from the computer engineers. "You fix this," she growled at them, shoving the torch into Lee's hands. "I have more important things to do. Scotty, I've told you to keep an eye on Lee. And Lee, gods, you're good at a lot of things, but practicals are _not those things_. Please continue with theory. Or go with government. You'd make a great politician." She left, positively stalking in four-inch heels.

"I would make a terrible politician," said Lee, practically putting his lip out. Scotty rolled his eyes and tried to show Lee how to work the torch, but Lee had figured it out already. He was handy enough with tools, if not practicals, and managed to get the iron off of the floor within half an hour.

Scotty spent most of the time Lee was torching the floor setting up the rest of the machinery. He was just finishing the laser pre-set when he felt his phone buzzing again. He pulled it out of his pocket to find five texts from his roommate, Christine.

The first text said, "new roommates next door are throwing liquor bottles at walls send help or pizza".

The second text said, "new roommates are very attractive but obviously gay for each other and not me D:".

The third text said, "have just proposed threesome to new roommates, have been removed from room forcefully by the grumpy one".

The fourth text said, "but then the blond one came out and winked at me and said he'd Let Me Know and gave me his number :D".

The fifth text said, "i like this school. it's exciting."

Scotty glanced over at Lee, who had just caught himself on fire. "That's my line," he muttered.

x

(Name: Chekov, Pavel Andreyevich  
Age: 17  
Residence: Washington DC  
Status: Enrolled in the School of Undergraduate Studies  
Concentration: Physics and Russian culture

High school: The British School of Washington

High school grade point average: 4.0

Class rank: 1/76

First submitted SAT I score: 2380

Second submitted SAT I score: 2395

Third submitted SAT I score: 2395

Fourth submitted SAT I score: 2390

First submitted ACT score: 36)

x

Studying the university's master schedule, Pavel Chekov had been puzzled by a few things. Why have summer school and regular session so close to one another? He was moving in to the dormitories the same day that summer school finals were over. Regular session started exactly a week after that. He asked his father, whose doctoral advisor had gone to Enterprise University, and his father said that Enterprise University was well-known for its unique scheduling, which dated back to _blah blah blah_. Chekov tuned out. He was only interested in _Russian_ history.

Obviously, he'd applied to Enterprise's physics department first. He'd immediately been accepted into Dean's Scholars, Ex Astra, and Physics Honors, all of Enterprise's science honors programs. He hadn't published a paper at sixteen for nothing, after all.

He was wandering the Enterprise grounds the day after his parents had dropped him off at Kirk Dormitory when he saw a pale man with messy black hair sitting against a tree, his eyes closed. Chekov stared at the man for a minute. He was incredibly familiar.

The man, apparently psychic, opened his eyes, turned his head, and looked straight at Chekov, who, to his great relief, recognized him immediately. "Mr. Spock!" he exclaimed, hurrying over. "_Gospodi_! I am a great fan!"

Spock looked slightly alarmed. He sat up quickly and tried to flatten his hair. "Ah, thank you," he started.

"You postulated an accurate response about the fundamentality of the graviton for your undergraduate thesis at Yale!" said Chekov. "Atemi Wachovia said you were to be the next Feynman!"

Spock blinked. "Yes—"

"I am Pavel Chekov and it is wonderful to meet you," Chekov proclaimed.

"Chekov?" said Spock, narrowing his eyes. "Surely not the Pavel Chekov who elaborated elegantly upon compactification as a mere high school student."

"Yes, that is me!"

Spock eyed him. "Would you like to have lunch?"

x

(Name: Sulu, Hikaru Walter  
Age: 20  
Residence: San Francisco, California  
Status: Enrolled in School of Undergraduate Studies  
Concentration: undeclared

High school: School of the Arts High School

High school grade point average: 3.8

Class rank: 8/234

First submitted SAT I score: 2340

First submitted ACT score: 33)

x


	6. The Wind in the Warp Drive

**Summary: **Star Trek, _Wind in the Willows style_. This story is a little experiment I did in crossovers, to see how a text changes when its subjects are replaced, but the tone is kept the same. It _is_ plagiarized from Chapter One of _The Wind in the Willows_, and the concept itself was shamelessly stolen from Ayalesca (who wrote an ST version of _The Little Prince_ which is… beyond my ability to adequately describe), although I did it for reasons other than whimsy and boredom. But beyond my own interests, I write this only to please and amuse, not to profit. This is the product of admiration for both Star Trek (as a franchise) and Kenneth Grahame (as a sculptor of words and worlds).

If you haven't read _The Wind in the Willows_—dear God, get yourself to a bookstore or library. It's not necessary to have read the book before reading this, but again, _dear God_.

x

**The Wind in the Warp Drive**

x

Chapter One: The Ship Yard

x

Spock had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little apartment. First with a sonic cleaner, then with evap-pads; then on hydraulic lifts and stools and pressure risers, with a dust-drinker and a portable composter; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and streaks of grime all over his blue uniform, and an aching back and weary arms. Science was moving in the air outside and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little apartment with its spirit of secular discontent and longing. It was a small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his dust-drinker on the floor, said 'Bath'pa!' and 'O Surak!' and also 'A photon torpedo on spring-cleaning,' and bolted out of the apartment without even waiting to grab his communicator. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the thin, grimy stairs which answered in his case to the graveled driveway owned by people whose residences are nearer to their liking. So he stepped and stumbled and scrabbled and scintillated and then he stepped again and stumbled and scrabbled and scintillated, working quickly with his long legs and muttering to himself, 'Down! Out, down and out we go!' till at last, bang! his hands found the door and his nose came out into the sunlight, and he found himself running across the warm pavement of a great metropolis.

'This is fascinating!' he said to himself. 'This is better than cleaning!' The sunshine struck hot on his black hair, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the apartment he had lived in so long the carol of honking hovers fell on his dulled pointed almost like a _sehlat_ scream. Jumping off all his two legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he perused his way across the city until he reached the sea on the further side…

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along the coast, suddenly he stood at the edge of a roaring shipyard. Never in his life had he seen a shipyard before—this sleek, sinuous gathering of full-bodied spacecrafts, whirring and wooshing, flashing things with their solar panels and leaving them with a blink, to fling themselves into the air amongst their playmates, and to land and to be caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, roar and whistle, hubbub and riot. Spock was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the shipyard he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a patriarch who holds one spell-bound by tales of deepest philosophy; and when tired at last, he sat on a bench, while the shipyard still murmured to him, a rumbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the universe to be told at last to the insatiable mind.

As he sat on the bench and looked across the shipyard, a open door on a ship opposite, just beyond the smaller craft, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell into considering what an exciting life it would make for a Vulcan with few wants and fond of a stellar view out his window, above atmospheric level and remote from noise and dust. As he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star. But it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a console light. Then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a wide face began gradually to grow up around it, like a frame round a picture.

A tanned round face, with bright teeth.

A competent round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice.

Small neat ears and thick blond hair.

It was Kirk!

Then the two men stood and regarded each other cautiously.

'Hello, Spock!' said Kirk.

'Greetings, Kirk,' said Spock.

'Would you like to come over?' enquired Kirk presently.

'An amusing proposition,' said Spock, rather pettishly, he being new to ships and ship life and its ways.

Kirk said nothing, but stooped and fetched a panel and toyed with it; then lightly stepped into a little hovercraft which Spock had not observed. It was painted silver outside and white within, and was just the size for two men; and Spock's whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.

Kirk floated smartly across and pulled the brakes. Then he held up his hand as Spock stepped gingerly down. 'Lean on that!' he said. 'Come on, hurry up!' and Spock to his surprise and rapture found himself actually standing inside the cockpit of a real hovercraft.

'This has been a most intriguing day,' said he, as Kirk activated the hover and took to the winds again. 'I have never had the privilege of riding in a spacecraft.'

'What?' cried Kirk open-mouthed: 'Never been in a — you never — well I — what have you been doing, then?'

'Then spacecrafts are as nice as you posit?' asked Spock shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leaned over in his stance and surveyed the panels, the lights, the emergency kit, the communicators, and all the fascinating mechanics, and felt the hovercar sway lightly under him.

'Nice?' said Kirk solemnly, as he leant forward into the wind. 'Believe me, my dear friend, there is _nothing _— absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in spaceships. Simply messing,' he went on dreamily; 'messing — about — in — spaceships; messing —'

'Look ahead, Kirk!' cried Spock suddenly.

It was too late. The hovercar struck the spaceship full-speed. The dreamer, the joyous helmsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the hovercar, his boots in the air.

'— about in spaceships — or _with_ spaceships,' Kirk went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. 'In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at a charted planet or whether you find a new one, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you can never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not. Listen up! If you've really nothing else to do today, suppose we drop down the shipyard together, and have a long day of it?'

Spock flexed his fingers from sheer happiness, spread his lips full with a sigh of contentment, and leaned back blissfully onto the blinking control panel. 'What a day I am having!' he said. 'Let us start at once!'

'Hold on just a sec, then,' said Kirk. He activated the grav-drive and docked the hovercar, climbed up into the ship above, motioning Spock after him, and disappeared.

Spock went to the bridge and sat in a chair and stared around him and considered just bursting, the joy he felt was so absurd and high, and birds were fluttering around the port windows, and Galaxy-glass spaceships were taking off meters from their dock, and he let the thickest smile rest across his face.

After a short interval Kirk produced, staggering, a fat, colorful replicator.

'Shove that under your feet,' he observed to Spock, as tugged it into the bridge. Then he deactivated the grav-drive and took the controls of the _Enterprise_.

'What is this?' asked Spock, mind coiling with curiosity.

'It makes tossed salads,' replied Kirk briefly; 'coldpepperscoldtomatoescolds trawberriespickledth'klarbriebaguettecauliflowerc ucumbersandwichescroissantsb utterjellyfrenchfriesbeerlem onadeicedteateasofallkinds—'

'Oh, stop,' whispered Spock in ecstasies: 'This is too much!'

'Do you really think so?' inquired Kirk seriously. 'It's only what I always take on little excursions, and Scotty is always telling me that I'm a mean captain and cut it very fine!'

Spock never heard a word he was saying. Absorbed in the new life he was entering upon, intoxicated with the eddy, the zephyr, the scents and the winds and the sunbeams, he trailed a hand in the passing air and dreamed long waking dreams. Kirk, like the good fellow he was, navigated steadily and did not disturb him.

'I like your clothes awfully, Mr. Spock,' he remarked after some half an hour had passed. 'I'm going to get a blue syntho shirt and nice pressed black slacks myself some day.

'Excuse me,' said Spock, pulling himself together with an effort. 'You must think me very rude; but this is all so new to me. So—this—is—a—spaceship!'

'The _Enterprise_,' corrected Kirk.

'And you really live on a spaceship? What a fascinating life.'

'On it and with it and by it and in it,' said Kirk. 'It's brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and hygiene. What it hasn't got isn't worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. Oh! the times we've had together! Whether in the Alpha or Beta Quadrant, Gamma or Delta, it's always got its fun and its excitements. When the Klingons are attacking during valor season, and my sickbay and corridors are teeming with injured, and the warriors run across the bridge itself; or again when it all drops away and we see whole galaxies that swirl like clouds, and the plasma and dilithium warps the drives, and we can potter about on impulse engines and make the most of the planets we find and civilizations we encounter, and things careless governments have abandoned on ground!'

'But isn't it a bit dull at times?' Spock ventured to ask. 'Just you and the _Enterprise_, and no one else to pass a word with?'

'No one else to—well, I shouldn't be hard on you,' said Kirk with forebearance. 'You're new to the ship, and of course you don't know. The ship is so crowded nowadays that many officers are leaving altogether: oh no, it isn't what it used to be, at all. Ensigns, science officers, doctors, security personnel, engineers, all of them running around all the time and always wanting you to do something—as if a captain had no business of his own to attend to!'

'What lies over there?' asked Spock, waving a hand towards a blankish piece of chart that darkly framed the lit-up Vulcan constellations on one side of the Alpha Quadrant.

'That? Oh, that's just the Romulan Sector,' said Kirk shortly. 'We don't go there very much, we Federation people.'

'Are not they—are not they very nice people in there?' said Spock, a trifle nervously.

'We-ll,' replied Kirk, 'let me see. The Romulan citizens are alright. And the retired soldiers—some of them, but soldiers are a mixed lot. And then there's Bones, of course. That human lives right in the heart of it; wouldn't live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Bones! Nobody interferes with _him_. They'd better not,' he added significantly.

'Why, who should interfere with him?' asked Spock.

'Well, of course, there are—others,' explained Kirk, in a hesitating sort of way. 'Government officials—and commanders—and leaders—and so on. They're all right in a way—I'm very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and all that—but they break out sometimes, there's no denying it, because the treaty's rather loose, and then—well, you can't really trust them, and that's a fact.'

Spock knew well that it is quite against human nature to dwell on awkward interplanetary relations, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the subject.

'And beyond the Romulan Sector again?' he asked: 'Where the charts are all black and red, and one sees what may be systems or perhaps not, and something like warp signatures, or is it only solar flares?'

'Beyond the Romulan Sector is the Galactic Barrier,' said Kirk. 'And that's something that doesn't matter, either to you or me. I've never been there, and I'm never going, nor you either, if you've got any sense at all. Don't ever refer to it again, please. Now then! Here's a new planet at last, where we're going to beam down for lunch.'

Leaving warp, the ship now passed in front of what seemed at first sight like a little blue planet. Blue clouds sloped across the sky, great serpents gleamed below the surface of the glassy water, while ahead of them the golden reflection and warm beams of the planet's sun, beam-in-beam with its child planet, filled the bridge with a soothing bank of heat, soft and cloying, yet with little clear motes of dust winking up cheerfully out of it at intervals. It was so beautiful that Spock could only cover his eyes and gasp, 'O my! O my! O my!'

Kirk brought the ship alongside the planet, put her in orbit, helped the still awkward Spock safely to the transporter room, and pulled the replicator out of his pack. Spock begged as a favor to be allowed to activate it all by himself; and Kirk was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the island they had found and rest, while his excited friend shook out a table-cloth and spread it, replicated a list of formulas one by one and arranged the new foods in due order, still gasping, 'O my! O my!' at each fresh revelation. When all was ready, Kirk said, 'Now have a bite, dear friend!' and Spock was indeed very glad to obey, for he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning, as Vulcans _will_ do, and had not paused for breakfast or lunch; and he had been across a very vast amount of space since that distant home planet, which now seemed so many lightyears ago.

'What are you looking at?' said Kirk presently, when the edge of their hunger was somewhat dulled, and Spock's eyes were able to wander off the table-cloth a little.

'I am looking,' said Spock, 'at a streak of bubbles I see travelling along the surface of the ocean. That is a very illogical thing.'

'Bubbles? Oh my,' said Kirk, and whistled cheerily in an inviting sort of tune.

A brown head of hair showed itself above the waves, and Scotty hauled himself out and toweled himself off.

'Greedy beggars!' he observed, going for the replicator. 'Why didn't you invite me, eh Kirk?'

'This was an impromptu celebration,' explained Kirk. 'By the way—my friend Spock.'

'Delighted, ah'm sure,' said Scotty, and the two were friends forthwith.

'Such a racket everywhere!' continued Scotty. 'All the ship seems to be out on th' water today. Ah came up to this island to try an' get a moment's peace, an' then stumble upon you fellows! At least—ah beg pardon—ah don't exactly mean that, y'know.'

There was a crunch of sand behind them, proceeding from a dune crusty with last year's highest tide, and a bushy head, with square shoulders behind it, glared forth on them.

'Come on out, Bones!' shouted Kirk.

Bones trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted, 'Humph! Company,' and turned his back and disappeared from view.'

'That's _just_ like Bones!' observed the disappointed Kirk. 'Simply hates other living creatures. Now we won't see any more of him today. Well, tell us, who's out on the ocean?'

'Chekov and Sulu're out, for two,' replied Scotty. 'In their brand-new hovercar; new paintjob, new everythin'!'

The two officers looked at each other and laughed.

'Once, it was nothing but video games,' said Kirk, 'then they got bored and took to chess. Nothing would please them more but to play and play all day and every day, and a nice mess they made out of my leisure room. Last month it was karate, and we all had to go and see their performances, and pretend they were any good. They were going to spend the rest of their lives training. It's all the same, whatever they take up; they get tired of it, and start on something fresh.'

'Two good fellows, too,' remarked Scotty reflectively: 'But no stability—especially in a hovercar!'

From where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main current in the great sea; and just then a hovercar flashed into view, the pilot—a tallish, fit man with black hair—wavering badly and rolling a good deal, but working his hardest. Kirk stood up and hailed him, but the navigator—for there were two of them—shook his head and settled sternly to his charts.

'They'll be out of the car in a minute if they roll like that,' said Kirk, sitting down again.

'Of course they will,' chuckled Scotty. 'Did ah ever tell you that good story about Sulu, Chekov, and Pike? It happened this way. Sulu…'


End file.
